Hungry (Like the Wolf)
by UnstableIntention
Summary: After Peter gets hurt saving Stiles' life, the teen's reaction kicks off long-dead instincts that he'd really rather not be feeling. Over the next few weeks they claw and twist at Peter's mind, Stiles' oblivious behavior sending him into a downward spiral of wicked courtship, that of a murderous, ex-alpha, zombie-wolf, until the young man can't ignore it anymore.
1. Chapter 1

The problem with killing was always getting started.

It was never what anyone expected it to be, at least at first.

Get a few years of it under your belt and that changed, but when you were young and naïve and clean of it, it was never what you thought.

Take a knife for example. Depending on how you went about it, if you got lucky or not, it was either going to be a lot more easy or a lot more difficult than you'd planned for.

Get lucky, or get smart as the case might be, and you turned your hand, and the blade would slip between the ribs like nothing. Find the lungs or the heart, send blood pouring forth to splash over your hands all hot and sticky…

Easy.

When you didn't get lucky, or if you were just plain stupid, that's when things really got messy.

When it wasn't as easy as you thought it would be.

Then all of a sudden you're panicking, hacking and slashing away desperately in a blinding-hot fury, splattering and slicing all over the place…

Fearful, because you'd fucked up.

Peter could hardly remember those times anymore.

He'd always been one for the mental game himself, manipulation, wearing people down, but there had been plenty of times in his young adulthood, in his other life, when the long con hadn't been feasible and death was the quicker and simpler answer. He'd acted as enforcer, first for his father's pack and then later in his sister's, and even though Talia had hated violence, had always gone for the more democratic solution, it hadn't stopped him from being needed. He'd provided a service, one that he was good at, even after he'd found a mate and settled a bit inside his skin.

The fire, Sarah's death, all those deaths, had sent him careening back to a time when he'd been young and in his prime, vicious, powerful, and aggressive. Tearing his way out of that coma, the death of his niece at his own hand, those things had twisted him, forced him back into that mindset of kill or be killed, and for a long time that was where he'd stayed. It worked really, because where Scott was unwilling to get his hands bloody and Derek was just incapable of doing anything the easy way, Peter was waiting in the shadows with a backup plan.

For all intents and purposes he'd found a place again - protect the pack - and that felt rather right, even if his main directive was and still remained himself. He wasn't above the occasional disappearance when it meant saving his own skin or even just saving him an inconvenience, but he'd never minded being the muscle, if only because it gave him an outlet for his more violent tendencies. Often it came with the added bonus of convincing others to underestimate his intelligence, his charisma when he really laid it on thick. It never lasted of course, but the element of surprise was always nice.

Still, Derek's little ragtag band - well, Scott's now really - actually did get things right every once in a while, even though that was mostly due to the lovely Miss Martin and the incomparable Stiles Stilinski.

Kicking the body of this week's monster into the hole he'd dug in the middle of the Preserve, Peter cursed and touched a hand gingerly to his side.

He never _had_ quite been able to get a full-bodied grip on that boy, and it was _his_ fault that Peter's fingers came away from his side bloody.

He wasn't as stupid as all the others so he would never say it, but sometimes he really did wish the kid would leave the battles to the professionals.

And Peter, _he _was a professional.

He should have known that knocking the idiot out of the way just a second too late would get him sliced.

He'd thought he had time.

If Stiles' tenuous control of his spark hadn't wavered at the last second he might've.

As it was, he'd gotten three neat, parallel stripes across his belly for his trouble, curving up and around his side, ending just beneath his ribs. The tingling numbness that was spreading out from the wounds suggested that the yet-unidentified creature he was currently burying had had some kind of venom in its arsenal, and he imagined that he wouldn't be healing for a while.

Snarling, Peter pitched the last scoop of earth in over top of the thing and spat on the grave, swinging the shovel up over his shoulder and heading back through the trees towards the new house at a bitter-paced march. After the disaster down in Mexico, his double-cross to cause Kate's final death and Derek's so called _evolution_, his nephew had gotten some sort of burr in his tail that had him coming back to old territory, using money from the vault to tear down the old house and erect a new one in its place. Strange, since it was no longer his pack, since his betas had dropped off left and right, but the remnants that they _could_ scrape together seemed to enjoy the place. Scott was there on any given day with his new beta Liam, and Lydia, Kira, and Stiles were almost always waltzing in and out like they owned the place. Braeden and Malia had decided to leave, much to Peter's delight, only to be replaced by the computer genius Danny Mehealani and the young deputy Kyle Parrish.

Seemed everyone in Beacon Hills was turning into something these days.

Peter paused at the edge of the trees and considered the house that had loomed up large and imposing before him, whose windows were all lit with a warm, golden glow, spilling light out onto the grassy yard that had been cleared so many years before. This was how things made sense - objectively he knew that. He fit here, in the shadows looking up at the light with the taste of blood still in his mouth. He _liked _it here. But time passed and fires banked down to ashes, and going in from the cold didn't feel so wrong as it had before.

Strange.

Shrugging it off, hissing between sharp teeth when the movement tugged at the torn skin and muscle of his abdomen, he crossed the wide lawn and pitched his shovel into the toolshed at the back of the house with a cruel smirk and an immense feeling of satisfaction, dusting off his hands and whistling a jaunty tune as he took the steps and ducked inside through the French doors off the back of the patio.

No scramble of movement or barrage of questioning greeted him as he entered, and that was fine because that was how he remembered it. Kicking off his muddy boots, leaving them to filthy up Derek's precious hard-wood floors, he padded in socked feet towards the room at the back of the house that Stiles had dubbed the War Room. Apt, in his opinion, if rather pompous - it had nothing on the office where Talia had always waited for him after he returned from a job. She had been a master of keeping her cool, maintaining her composure in the face of crisis, but she had nothing on her emotionless black hole of a son.

Derek barely flicked a glance in his direction when he entered, just continued to address Scott's pack like it was still his, standing side by side with the True Alpha who still couldn't fully accept what he was. The boy seemed incapable of taking his responsibility into his hands the way an alpha should, even after all these years, and _that _was what disgusted Peter most about the whole thing. Being an alpha was something that was _earned_; you either fought and killed to take it or you trained and battled your whole life to inherit it. It should never just _come_, should never just _happen_.

Goodness of character didn't mean that Scott deserved to be an Alpha, and it certainly didn't mean that he was prepared to be.

"So this is over then?" the puppy-eyed boy asked, and Peter barely bit back a snarl. He should be _telling_ them, not asking. "Everything's taken care of?"

And there it was, finally all eyes on him to have done the dirty work their dainty hands were too soft and white to be sullied with.

"You tell me," he demanded smoothly, his eyes burning blue, and beside Scott Derek snarled but he ignored it. He was a beta now with no more technical right to rank than Peter had, and he found himself with a growing sense of irritation whenever it came to his so-called pack members. "I did my part; was the warehouse cleared?"

It had been a bloody mess when he'd left, hauling a rolled-up carpet over his shoulder.

"We took care of it," Derek responded gruffly. "Did you get rid of the body?"

"Put it with the rest," he shrugged, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back against the wall to kick out his feet, crossing one ankle over the other, all nonchalance even though it hurt. "But at this rate we're going to have to find a new burial ground."

Derek rolled his eyes, brushed him off.

Peter was entirely serious.

Their little Nemeton beacon was actually becoming something of a problem, and if there was one thing Peter had never had a problem with before it was finding a place to stash a body.

"All right then, I guess we're done," Scott said awkwardly, getting to his feet. "Let's go home; we've got school tomorrow."

Peter watched silently as the teenagers began to file slowly out of the room, a sudden wave of weariness coming over him. He was rather exhausted - he hadn't slept in three nights and the fight had taken a good deal of energy out of him, to say nothing of the blood loss. Now his body was fighting futilely to heal itself, and that too was taking its toll, his eyes drifting shut as he leaned back against the wall and the room cleared out.

He was debating the merits of staying over in one of the house's many guest rooms - an option that had the benefit of irritating his nephew to back it up - when the smell of Doritos and Speedstick and Mountain Dew swamped his senses, that and the ever-present wisp of charcoal, a Spark coming into its craft.

Peter's hand flashed out on instinct and caught Stiles tightly by the wrist, a low growl rumbling up from deep in his chest before he'd even opened his eyes.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice like gravel as his irises flared, but the boy just glared at him and grabbed the bottom of his Henley with his free hand, rucking it up around his ribs.

"You're not healing," he stated, just this side of a dumbfounded question, and Peter narrowed his eyes, using his grip on the boy to shove him roughly away. His heartbeat was pounding thunderously in Peter's ears but there was a hot sort of electricity simmering low in his belly where Stile's had grazed his flesh, and he was too close for the werewolf to think of anything but forcing him away.

He didn't like being backed up against a wall.

"Yes I am," he sneered, tugging his shirt back down to his belt as Stiles stumbled back, caught his balance.

He didn't know what the boy's game was but he certainly wasn't going to turn up his belly and expose a weakness to him. Aware of it or not, he was perhaps the most dangerous person in this pack with the exception of Peter himself, and that wasn't even factoring in his developing spark. He had a mind and a deviousness that Peter both admire and respected, and with respect came understanding. Acknowledgment that he could be someone dangerous to him.

A _threat_.

So it was unnerving that suddenly he had his hands on Peter, was standing in his space where he was used to being the pack pariah, avoided at all costs. It wasn't so bad as it was at the beginning of course, when he'd first resurrected himself or when it had looked like he was siding with Kate against the pack, but he was still uncomfortable with any show of affection or concern, even if deep, deep down some small, insatiable part of his wolf _craved _it.

But now Stiles was watching him with those huge, amber eyes, calculating, haunted, and yet somehow still innocent enough that they were just _begging _to be ruined, and Peter was left wondering why he suddenly wanted to know if the boy's hands would be hot or cold against his skin.

He'd thought about it before of course, more than once in fact.

It would certainly be a type of challenge, seeing if he could manipulate the young man into that position, and there were few things he loved more than a challenge. Stiles was smart, and he knew Peter like few others did, saw beyond the mask of charm and charisma that he could slip in and out of like a well-worn jacket.

Unfortunately, Peter suspected that there was something more to the desire than that, and that was the _only_ thing that had kept him from just sinking in his teeth and taking a fat, juicy _bite_.

Just like that time in the parking garage where'd he offered Stiles the greatest thing he could, offered to take him, _make _him, and there was something whispering along the back of his mind, something small and reptilian, driven by instinct that said there was more to come. Something greater. And Peter knew how to be patient. This sort of thing was what he lived for, and he lived it with relish.

In this instance though, he was running blind. For once he didn't know the end-game, didn't have a fully-formed goal set in his sights, instead just a pale, gangly boy wreaking havoc on his decisions.

Tonight had been a perfect example.

He shouldn't have done what he did, wouldn't have expected it from himself. He'd…

"You saved my life."

Peter blinked, looked Stiles up and down.

The boy looked as confused as Peter felt.

"You… you're _Peter_, you shouldn't have…"

"Then next time I won't," he cut in smoothly, easy as anything, pushing off the wall and sidestepping him to make his way towards the door. Pissing Derek off wasn't worth sticking around. "Be less of an inconvenience to me."

"Peter!" Stiles barked, and the wolf almost kept going, just to annoy the kid a little bit more, but then there was a hand on his elbow wrenching him around hard and the young man was staring at him with something like deadly determination in his eyes.

"Thank you."

And hell, what was he supposed to do with that?

He didn't know.

So instead he did what he did when he felt like he was playing against a stacked deck; he shrugged the kid off and he left.


	2. Chapter 2

The next afternoon Peter came back from the drug store to find a flat cardboard box sitting on his welcome mat. He caught sight of it from the end of the hallway, as soon as he stepped out of the elevator, and it had momentarily frozen him in his tracks as his mind ran through the gamut of all the people and supernatural entities he had ever pissed off.

It was a long list, and there wasn't a name on it that wouldn't be above sending him a nice little explosive.

Shifting the paper sack in his arms, he took a few cautious steps towards the thing, scented the air.

Wait a minute.

Was that…

_Stiles_.

Bearing his teeth in growl, Peter stalked down the hallway towards his door, the tension bleeding out of his spine as he went. He didn't understand how he hadn't noticed the young man's scent before; he couldn't be that used to it, that comfortable with it, and he'd kept his address from his nephew deliberately so none of the brat pack had ever come anywhere near his building. His smell should have stuck out like a lightning strike, jarring and electric, tainting the air. Not that it was any big surprise that Stiles had been able to figure out where he lived. He'd given him enough hints over the years; it shouldn't have been hard.

No, the surprise was that he'd dared set foot in the wolf's lair at all.

Lots of interesting angles to take on that, he mused, but right now he wasn't exactly interested in puzzling through any of them. He'd gone out to pick up some first aid supplies and had every intention of spending the rest of the afternoon in the plush comfort of his elegant, king sized four-poster, making a significant effort towards letting his body recuperate even if he couldn't achieve any real sleep. He was currently deeply entrenched in one of his bouts of unexplained insomnia and it wasn't contributing anything helpful to his healing process - the deep lacerations across his belly and over his side hadn't even begun to close and were weeping sluggishly, blood and something clear that he suspected was what had numbed him the night before, only to fade away and leave him with a vicious burning sensation hours later.

Hence his little excursion for peroxide and cotton gauze.

Jingling through his keys, he nudged the box absently with the toe of his boot as he opened the door to his apartment, Beacon Hill's own version of an expensive high rise that took up the entirety of the top floor. When the thing didn't hiss or rattle he shrugged, crouching down to scoop it up and take it inside, depositing it on the countertop along with his bag. Working his fingers beneath the sealed edge of the cardboard, he tipped it sideways and sent its contents shuffling out onto the counter, catching them at the last minute when he realized what it was.

Homemade apple pie.

Well hell.

He'd been expecting a book, some dusty tome of Deaton's full of magic and intentionally vague notes, or maybe a thick stack of loose leaf covered in Stiles' own careful hand, research he'd put together for the pack that he wanted a second opinion on.

He hadn't been ready for this.

Not an aluminum pan, still warm on the bottom, filled with flaky pastry perfectly browned, oozing at the edges with sticky filling that smelled like cinnamon and tart fruit. Peter's stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him that it had been a good twenty four hours since he'd eaten - he hated fighting on a full stomach - but as easy as it would be to just accept this thing at face value, Peter's mind didn't work like that, and he knew that Stiles' didn't either.

Tilting the pan precariously, he looked underneath for the string that came attached to the dessert, mostly for his own amusement but he wouldn't put it beyond the boy to poison him with sweets either. Maybe not to death - he was oddly moral when it came to certain things - but to sickness or paralysis certainly. A pinch of cinnamon, a sprinkle of nutmeg, and oh yes, a healthy dash of good old mountain ash.

It was only the question bushwhacking away at his theory that kept him from tipping the whole thing into the trash on principle alone.

_Why_?

Stiles was more like Peter than he'd like to believe - they both played to an end game - so what purpose would injuring or sickening him serve? Less the masochist than the strategist, more's the pity, there had to be a reason behind what this was.

Marcus Aurelias preached simplicity - ask what each thing served in and of itself.

So what did he know?

Peter knew that last night he had saved the kid's life, though he still didn't know precisely _why_. He knew that both of them were aware of that fact, and had acknowledged that the action was out of character for him. He knew that Stiles had later reacted strangely, stepping into his space in a move that was out of character for _him_, and had showed something almost like concern. More than that, he had _thanked_ Peter for what he'd done, straight out and honest and _insistent_, and he couldn't remember the last time _that _had happened.

So maybe it was as easy as that.

Just another unnecessary thank you from a kid who didn't want to owe Peter anything.

Smart.

It was a sentiment that he could get behind, because if he'd truly felt like Stiles _did _owe him something…

Well.

Let's just say he'd have lorded that card over the boy's head a good long while before finding the perfect moment to play it.

Tempting thought actually, but his wolf was salivating at this point, teeth sunk deep into Peter's stomach, demanding to be fed. Taking the aluminum pan in his hands he squeezed gently until the pie broke, lifting out a large, sticky chunk and taking a messy bite. It was unfairly delicious, perfectly tender and flaky, sweet with a hint of spice, and he devoured the entire piece standing over the tin at the counter before he even thought to fetch a plate. Already sticky and in the privacy of his own home where he could do as he damn well pleased, he shrugged before picking up another hand-sized chunk and heading for the bathroom, snagging his bag of first aid on the way.

Peter had never had to really doctor himself up before.

Not this way anyway.

Oh, he'd set a few broken bones in his lifetime, a few dislocated joints, but his nursing skills were mostly limited to battle-dressage, temporary and only just sufficient.

Still, he knew enough to realize that just licking his fingers clean of sugary apple-filling probably wasn't the wisest move, so he washed his hands carefully before tugging out of his shirt. Sucking a breath in between bared teeth with a hiss, his eyes flashed against the pain as his shirt stuck to the edges of the wet wounds, as the torn skin and muscle was pulled taught as he stretched his arms over head. The gashes were long and curving and still hadn't begun to heal, and if they didn't start in the next day or two he might need to put a little more effort into the process. For now however, he contented himself with cleaning the lacerations, debriding them with the bubbling, stinging peroxide before smearing on a thick layer of filmy antibacterial cream.

Covering his left side with gauze, he did a quick wrap-around with an ace bandage and slipped back into his shirt, turning a bit this way and that in front of the mirror. The bandage would prevent anything seeping through his shirt, but if it could be seen, bulky or bunched beneath his clothes, it would be just as much of a neon sign screaming _weakness_ as a blood stain would. All of his instincts were urging him to find a bolt hole, to settle in somewhere he couldn't be found until he was back to full health. His apartment would have been the ideal place for that, but Stiles' sudden intrusion had him feeling once again like his back was up against a wall, and he wondered if he wouldn't rather just pay for a hotel room for a few days.

Peter bristled, bared sharpened teeth at his reflection.

To hell with that; Stiles was the last person he'd ever turn tail and slink away from.

He'd never hear the bloody end of it.

Besides, there wasn't anything about that doe-eyed, hyperactive teen he wasn't prepared to handle.

Shucking his jeans, Peter swung through the kitchen in his boxers to grab the rest of the pie before heading to his bedroom, collapsing back into a heap of pillows and flicking on the flat screen hanging from the opposite wall. Typically more fastidious, finicky about getting crumbs on the sheets, he balanced the tin on his chest and spent the rest of a lazy afternoon browsing the History channels, eating tender, flavorful bites of pie from his fingers, and doing his best to let his natural healing abilities take over.

**XXX**

It was past eleven when he woke up the next morning.

He didn't remember drifting off, didn't come awake dreaming, and that wasn't Peter's typical night even on a good week.

Attempting to stretch the kinks out of his muscles, he grumbled with irritation as the pain in his side flared to life once again. Still not healed up then.

Delightful.

Curling slowly upright, he touched his hand to his side, carefully, delicately. Beneath his t-shirt his bandages were sticking, tugging at his skin and it was an inconvenience that he wasn't accustomed to. He might've thought he'd feel better with sleep but instead he felt logy and stiff, his mouth dry and his belly heavy and tight. The briefest of thoughts flitted through his mind that Stiles might really _have_ done something to him but it passed as soon as it had come; he knew physical pain, poisoning, and this was not that.

No, there was something more to it, something psychological, instinctual, lifting the hair on the back of his neck.

It was his wolf that was unsettled, his inner animal, and it had him itching for the shadows of the Preserve, the quiet and loam of the wood where he could shift and run, stalk and prowl and _hunt_. The full moon was still more than a week away but his skin already felt too tight. He despised this part of his nature, the ache of wanting what he didn't have, what he'd gotten the most perfect, delicious taste of before it had been carved out of him by his nephew's claws.

He wanted that again.

Strolling towards the kitchen, Peter set the coffee pot to percolating, breathed in the smell of the rich earthy grinds that he had imported from Columbia as he contemplated his recent decisions. Entrenched within a pack once more, he'd cut himself out a place that he was relatively comfortable with, a niche that worked for now while still feeding some of his more baser urges. At the same time, he often still found himself becoming unnecessarily irritable, quick to snarl and show his teeth, anxious for nights of blood and darkness and the heart pounding chase. He wasn't sure what exactly it was that he was waiting for, not with Scott so idle and close to hand, so unassuming as he turned an unprotected back to Peter's teeth. He'd been a mistake from the very beginning, too trusting and too unwilling to fight; taking his Alpha-hood from him would feel like nothing so much as correcting that error.

But killing Scott would come with consequences, a few too many of them to be convenient. Peter wasn't concerned with his nephew, or Scott's lone beta Liam, but Lydia and her Molotov cocktails could be a problem.

And Stiles.

Stiles was the real flaw in that plan.

He'd offered the boy his Bite once - now a Spark, he wouldn't offer it again, _couldn't _offer it again, but that didn't mean he wouldn't offer a lot more to have him at his side. Stiles was strategic, conniving, devious, and with him at his right hand Peter could only imagine the empire they could build together.

He was also fiercely loyal, a trait which Peter might have appreciated if it weren't so poorly placed.

But Scott had gotten to the boy first and there was nothing that Peter could do about that.

No, that solution was out of the running, and he'd mostly accepted that, though he was still tempted from time to time. Like last night for example. The young alpha had an infuriating way about him, and Peter suspected that it was going to get him killed one day, whether it was by his hand or someone else's.

Taking down a mug from the cupboard as the pot finished percolating, he poured himself a steaming mug of coffee and took a bracing sip. Nothing to worry about really - he had half a dozen other plans in the works, even more feelers out, threads crisscrossing the state and beyond, a tangled web of cat's cradle with opportunities at every end.

All he really had to do was wait.

And Peter was good at waiting.

Six years in a coma of paralysis tended to teach a man patience.

Wandering across the kitchen, he opened the front door with the intention of fetching the newspaper that got dropped on the mat each morning and was greeted once again by the warm, electric, _frenetic_ scent of Stiles, backing away from the door with a snarl on his face.

He must have been in quite the state of slumber if he hadn't heard the boy knock… unless he'd been too much of a coward to do any more than ditch his delivery and run.

Growling low in his chest, Peter crouched down and swiped up the cardboard box sitting on top of his paper, cursing when he tugged at the wounds across his belly.

Dammit, he couldn't even move without…

Accustomed to his own brand of cold calculation, the somewhat irrational anger tickling at his insides was a heat that he didn't care for and that was making him all the more aggressive for it being there. His teeth on edge, he took another burning gulp of coffee before tossing the paper onto the table, tearing open the box with a claw and turning it over roughly onto the counter top. It was a loaf of bread this time, dense and browned, smelling of corn and bacon and sharp cheddar, and Peter immediately wanted to toast up a heaping plate of it, slathered in butter and topped with a fried egg, washed down with the rest of his pot of coffee.

It was his body craving salt and fat, like fighting off the remnants of a hangover in its attempt to put itself back to rights, but he knew better to indulge it. He needed protein not carbs, a raw, bloody kill, and there was still something uncomfortable about the whole situation. A part of him didn't care for Stiles sneaking by to leave him baked goods, like the price of his life could be solved by a couple of treats. If the kid really wanted to pay him back for his trouble, Peter could think of more than one way he'd prefer to receive his compensation.

Still, he'd missed breakfast and a couple of slices wouldn't kill him.

* * *

><p><strong>Happy New Year everyone! Let me know what you think - I *LOVE* Peter, but this is my first fic starring his lovely self.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't a revelation that he came to consciously - it was actually sleep that brought understanding, strangely enough. Peter didn't dream unless it was nightmares, never really remembered what brought him upright in the dark, covered in sweat with his heart pounding in his chest and a snarl caught between clenched fangs. Coming awake quietly, _calmly_, with the late afternoon sun spilling like water across the bed, was far more unsettling.

Unsettled though was far too mild a word for the current state of his inner animal. He'd gone to sleep the night before with something scratching at the back of his neck, some instinct irritated and on high alert, though at the time he hadn't know what.

Now, now it came to him as a full and terrifying understanding, what was skulking around just beyond the shadows, what was making his wolf pace and snarl. It had always been there of course, long dead knowledge that he never should have recognized, a simple comprehension of what was happening as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to know.

He was an injured pack member being fed, and he didn't like it.

He would have fought it if he'd realized.

Wouldn't have munched his way through half of the loaf of bread Stiles had left on his doorstep, blissfully unaware that he was playing in to the whole thing. Like the pie that had been dropped off before it, it had been delicious and satisfying in a way he hadn't expected, but had ended up sitting like lead in his stomach.

Good, but heavy.

Like a Spark was forcing some emotion on him without his consent, feelings that tasted of tart green apples and sharp cheddar.

Worse still came that small part of him whispering nasty things, suggestive of thoughts that someone like him would never have. Thoughts, that said if the roles were reversed, he wouldn't be so on edge, wouldn't feel so displaced from how things _should _be…

Peter's phone pinged from the nightstand and he practically leapt for it, hoping for a convenient distraction, but the message blinking from the screen afforded him no such luck and instead had his fangs prickling at his gums, his hand clamping down on the torn muscles below his ribs as hot pain sliced across his abdomen.

Nephew dearest was calling a pack meeting.

Lovely.

Rolling out of bed, Peter tested his range of movement tentatively, the carving marks along his side only just beginning to itch with healing and still viciously painful if he turned the wrong way. Tugging up the hem of his t-shirt, he peeled down his bandages, grimacing at the ragged, inflamed cuts striping through his skin. He would need to dress it again before he headed for the loft. Clenching his jaw, he shed his clothes on the way to the bathroom, too irritable for his usual fastidious nature to take point. The hot water wasn't as soothing as he'd hoped it would be, nor was the cold when he tried that instead. Angry, hackles raised, he wrenched the water off completely and toweled dry, cleaning and wrapping his wounds again as carefully as he had the first time to hide them from the pack.

_Pack_.

Peter nearly spat the word out at his reflection, his eyes glowing a pale, cold blue.

He could say it as much as he liked but that didn't make it real.

All technicalities taken into consideration, he _was_ a part of the pack. He just didn't feel it most of the time. He existed on the fringes, did the dirty work and walked in the shadows when things called for experience and ruthless cunning. He never occupied the center of the puppy pile, didn't enjoy anything beyond the protection of the _name _of pack, and that was generally how he liked it. He could say he was a Hale wolf, maybe even a McCall wolf if circumstances demanded it, but that was all. His pack members didn't care about him and that was more than enough of an excuse not to care about them in return.

The tactile interaction that was so natural to their species was never extended his way, nor any of those pesky nurturing instincts that came with illness or injury, and he normally felt no compulsion to extend them himself.

_That _was right, _that _was what he was comfortable with. How things _should _be.

No matter how much being hurt - hurt badly too, what with his healing all but non-existent and the wounds still weeping with whatever clear fluid had coated his assailant's claws - made him want.

_Crave_.

And still that whisper, that wicked devil of a thought sitting on his shoulder that said _he _should be the one taking care.

The one providing.

Peter snapped his teeth at the mirror before running some product through his hair, setting off in search of his boots and his good jacket.

He'd damn well "provided" enough by saving that teenager's sorry ass in the first place, and what a mistake that had been. True he was scoring some baked goods for his trouble, but the quaint little brain-bender that came along with it was hardly worth the flour.

Besides, the kid wasn't _his_, so what did he care?

Oh he wasn't afraid to admit that a part of him had wanted Stiles. He had. Wanted him for his own pack, wanted him for his mind, his intelligence and his quick wit. His ability to go toe to toe with Peter whether through reckless bravery or cunning that could potentially match his own was admirable, _desirable_. Together what they could do would be limited only by the breadth of their imaginations, and the boy had already proven himself a deft hand in that regard, as good with his mountain ash circles and his magic as he was at the Chess and Go boards.

Still, he didn't like the way his wolf had sat up and taken notice, didn't like the way it was scenting the air while licking its chops.

He had plans, goals, a life of luxury and leisure to live out, and none of them included the scrawny, loud-mouthed human of the pack who didn't even have enough control over his Spark to save his own hide.

But these were problems that could be solved easily enough.

If he wanted to be crass and blunt about it he could always just throw the kid against the wall and threaten him a little - he imagined it would go over better for him than it did for Derek.

Unlike his nephew, Peter still commanded fear.

Slipping into a pair of dark sunglasses, he felt his lips curve in the wicked smirk he'd practically patented, the one that oozed charisma and seduction and only a little bit of _bad_. In his buckled leather boots and his heavy flak jacket, with his hair finger-combed and his goatee trimmed sharp and clean, he felt all of the deadly charmer, and it put the cockiness his injury had dampened back in his step. He didn't care to examine why that pleased him too closely this afternoon - it felt good and that was enough for him.

Taking the elevator to the basement garage of his building, Peter walked round to his motorcycle, a Harley Sportster, custom made, slim and sleek in a deep, charcoal grey. He's considered both black and bloody red when he'd purchased the bike but had felt them too cliché, and besides the grey was just a touch more mysterious, a touch more approachable when Peter felt like… _mingling _with the common folk. He loved the way the engine rumbled beneath him as he straddled the bike, the way it could weave so smoothly in and out of traffic, the stinging bite of the wind on his face when he got it onto the highway and broke ninety. He abhorred the confinement of cars, being strapped down by a seatbelt.

On his bike he felt free.

It was fast and sleek and deadly, with a roar that rivalled his own, and he _loved_ it.

Starting the bike with a fierce, rumbling growl, he swung his leg over the engine and headed for the Hale House.

**XXX**

Peter was the first to answer his nephew's summons, the house quiet but for the younger Hale who stalked around the living room with a dark glower on his face. Typically later than was really acceptable, he found his irritation flaring when he parked his bike on the lawn beneath the young oak that had been planted to the side of the drive, Derek's Camaro the only other vehicle there. He would think the flashy car pretentious if he didn't know that it had been Laura's, hadn't been able to recognize her scent still clinging to the small spaces of the interior, the stitching of the leather seats.

His teeth already on edge, seeing it again did nothing for his attitude, reminding him of one of the very few things he regretted the necessity of in his life. But, since he intended to have a serious conversation with a certain Spark in the near future, he tamped it down, taking his ire out on Derek's coffee table by dropping down onto the fancy leather couch and kicking his heels up onto the edge of the glass. His nephew had snarled and flashed his eyes but Peter had just smirked, settled lower into a slouch and closing his eyes, folding his hands together over his stomach.

He could do this.

He could handle this calmly, with all the cold calculation that was his wont, even though inside he was practically panicking as unwelcome emotions came bubbling up inside of him in an uncontrollable wave, emotions that he hadn't felt in what seemed like a lifetime.

Even though everything in him wanted to get gone.

If Peter was anything he was a survivor, and instinct, _experience _was telling him to get away from this. Stop it before it started, get things back to the way they were supposed to be, the way he liked them.

Huffing a long sigh, he felt a smug little smile curve over his mouth as he sank into the plush luxury of the couch.

He wasn't going to _run_ from _Stiles_.

He could handle that sarcastic little…

_Shit_.

His scent coming through the door was like static electricity tripping down Peter's spine, an intriguing tingle finished by a harsh zap that suggested the potential for worse, a warning. Corn chips and Adderall and Spark smoke, the underlying smells of apple and cranberry and orange, cinnamon and spice, sharpened by the hard edge of alcohol.

It was the way Stiles smelled when he was anxious - cider and Christmas punch.

The way he smelled when he was nervous, when he was _worried_.

It flooded through his veins like ice water and made his muscles tense up, the tips of his claws pricking at the backs of his hands before he reeled in the reaction. The kid tossed off some obnoxiously loud remark in what he imagined was Derek's direction - the younger wolf had disappeared into the kitchen after five minutes of glaring and muttered insults failed to elicit a rise out of Peter. For the briefest of moments he considered leaving, or at the very least shifting forward to sit upright and ready in place - he neither needed nor _wanted_ Stiles' concern - but he bit the instinct back, forced himself to relax into his slouch.

It hardly seemed appropriate that he was the one having all these ridiculous, _stupid_ emotions force fed down his throat - of all the people in the world, he was the last one that should work on.

Peter huffed, rolled his hips to find a more comfortable position for his ass against the edge of the couch.

This was Stiles' fault; it was only fair that he be the one to deal with the mess.

He could hear the young man's footsteps coming closer, felt his presence coming to his side, the hair along his forearms standing up as his scent sharpened and intensified, a heartbeat jumping just a little, the smallest bit faster than it should be.

Not fast enough that he couldn't ignore it though.

"Peter."

Oh for God's _sake_.

Internally rolling his eyes, Peter dropped his boots from the coffee table, planted them both firmly on the hardwood floor so that it looked like he was just responding to Stiles' request to move his feet, so that he could pass him to the other end of the couch. For just a minute he thought that was going to be enough, that that would work as Stiles stepped around him between his open knees and the coffee table, but then he was stopping, not crossing over him but instead standing directly in front of him, _over_ him.

Opening steel blue eyes he found the boy staring down at him with a dark, wary gaze of his own, pale fingers toying anxiously with the edges of another small cardboard box. He could smell toasted nuts and coarse sugar, knew that it was full of Stiles' pistachio crunch cookies. Of all the things the young man had brought over the years to feed the pack those were Peter's favorites, the only thing he actively enjoyed, stealing a handful before the rest of the young wolves could devour them like… well, like wolves.

"Here."

Blinking, Peter found the box being thrust towards him, the rich, sweet smell making his mouth water and his eyes narrow, all his issues with this sudden development barreling back at him like a damned cannon ball.

Cocking an eyebrow, he his let his gaze skim smoothly between the box and Stiles' face, derogatory with the unspoken question between them. Stiles shifted on his feet, biting his lower lip before squaring his shoulders and frowning.

"Look, would you just take 'em?" he frowned, thrusting the box forward again. "I know you like…"

"You have to stop this," he interrupted suddenly, and his voice was more grave to his own ears than it had ever been. "Understand? _Stop. This_."

"Then show me you're better," Stiles demanded, all heated bravado, but his amber eyes flashed with something in a way that said he was just as surprised by the outburst as Peter was. "_Show me_."

But of course Peter couldn't do that.

Because he wasn't better.

Wasn't healing.

And showing that off would hardly help his cause.

Abruptly thrown off his game, unaccustomed to concern being directed towards his person, Peter fought not to squirm. _He_ didn't squirm, not for _any _reason. Instead he found himself backpedaling hard, and unfortunately that meant that his mouth was suddenly half a step ahead of his brain, digging him just a little further into the rut that was already proving to be a damned pain in his ass.

"Why Stiles," he heard himself purr silkily, "If you wanted me to take my shirt off, all you had to do was ask. I'd be happy to show you mine… if you show me yours."

He almost bit his tongue in an attempt to call the words back, furious with himself for once again playing into his own problem, but despite the anger burning up hot in his belly, Peter felt his gaze sliding like water down the Stiles' frame, took in his form as it hovered over his own, standing more deeply between his parted knees than the young man probably realized. He pulled his focus back up to Stiles' face just in time to see his amber eyes widen, hear his heartbeat jerk, then start tripping away at a thunderous pace. His wolf lunged hard in his chest, a dog at the end of its chain as Stiles' pink tongue flicked out over his lower lip, unconsciously as though from thirst, his gaze taking its own trip down Peter's body, over his chest and lower before he swallowed hard and straightened up in one fast, jerky motion.

"In your dreams Creeperwolf," he bit out, but the comeback was still far less acidic than he'd braced for, Stiles' voice thick and rough with gravel, like he'd been choked, and wasn't that a pretty image?

Interest peaked by the boy's unexpected reaction, Peter none the less shoved it violently away, his eyes lighting up within internal conflict as his better sense warred with the sudden hunger simmering in his belly. He felt out of his element here, his balance off kilter, and it was both an intriguing and infuriating sensation. Upper lip curling in a sneer, a low snarl rumbled up from deep in his chest as he bared his teeth at the young man who still stood over him with his hands fisted at his sides, determined not to back down.

Curling himself upright, clenching his jaw against the pain of crunching muscles in his abdomen, Peter felt his claws come unsheathed as his control slipped, as he gathered his breath to repeat his earlier command and drive his point home with pain if he had to, but before he could lever himself up off the couch, before a threat could pass his lips, a throat cleared and both of them jumped, turning to glare heatedly at the pack that was suddenly hovering in the open doorway leading to the front hall.

"Stiles?" Scott queried, hesitant enough to turn Peter's stomach. "Everything ok?"

For three hard beats of silence Stiles held Peter's gaze, cold and heavy before taking a step back, half-turning to his friend. "Fine," he said flatly, and then Peter was scoffing and shoving himself up from the couch, the space so tight that their chests brushed and sent Stiles flailing back, the coffee table catching him at the knees and almost sending him to the ground.

Jerking the box from the boy's hands roughly, Peter bared his teeth and snarled, low and deadly as he shook it in his face.

"Stop this," he growled quietly.

Stiles flinched minutely as Peter's fangs came close to his neck, adrenaline making his scent spike with warmth and spice and it hit the wolf hard. Stepping back, he slung his jacket over his shoulder and sent one more hot glare in the young man's direction before shoving his way through the pack and stalking out of the house.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter didn't sleep that night and he was almost glad of it.

It had nothing to do with his earlier encounter with the young Spark, or the subsequent inundation of angry and demanding text messages from his nephew and Alpha that he had so far successfully ignored; he was just… back to normal.

The night was his time, the darkness his solace. Sleep was just wasted hours, wiled away in nothingness, his body still and his mind blank, so much like being comatose that it made him want to feel physically sick sometimes. It was easier to roam, to hunt in whatever way he could, and so he returned to his apartment until dusk fell, steadfastly ignoring the box he'd tossed angrily onto the kitchen counter. When the half-moon was fully risen, cold silver against the deep, rich blue of the sky he locked up and got back on his bike, let the engine rumble and purr beneath him as he left Beacon Hills behind.

An hour's passing minutes took him to the nearest big city, if you could call it that, the nearest bar worthy of his time.

It wasn't sophistication he sought tonight, not delicate lighting and silk table covers or extensive lists of wines served in crystal glasses. Tonight he needed something harder, harsher, _coarser_ - a place where he could prowl the darkness of the dancefloor, feel the wild predator in him only just breaking though as he shrugged off his iron-clad control. Where he could let his eyes flare or trail the tips of his claws down the ribcage of some girl too high on heroin or coke to notice or to care.

He knew the hunger that was simmering in his belly, had felt it before - _many_ times since he'd come back alive again - but there was an edge to it now that was different, new, and the sharpness kept him on high alert like the bite of a blade against his skin.

Parking his bike in the rear lot of the club; a nondescript, brick building without a name, windowless and halfway underground, Peter flicked the collar of his jacket back into place, plastered on a smarmy grin, and strutted right past the bouncer and the line of complaining patrons waiting at the door.

Stepping into the darkness felt like slipping into a well-worn mask; all cool, comfortable shadows heavy across his shoulders and the back of his neck. Cloaked with it Peter made his way to the bar, pulled the female bartender to his side with a single finger and a nod of his chin. She smiled and flirted with him prettily as she ignored her other customers, poured him a lowball of black-label whiskey over ice. Peter offered her a human grin, holding out the wolf's edge for better prospects. This one was too young, too skinny, dressed in black and makeup that was too heavy.

Not his type.

Not that he had a type - Peter was an equal-opportunity seductor - but tonight he was looking for something… different.

Something that would hold up a little better under… pressure.

Accepting his drink with a half-smile that he'd dimmed down to polite disinterest, he turned his back on the bar and surreptitiously broke a tablet of dried, powdered mistletoe into the glass. Giving it a swirl, he took a bracing slug, felt the warm burn of it roll smoothly down his throat to pool in his belly. He had no plans to get drunk tonight, there was more fun to be had sober, but he had nothing against the slight buzz that the doctored whiskey would give him, the relief from the constant, unending tension in his muscles from withholding what he was, the inanity of living everyday as harmless, so very, very…

A low growl rumbled up out of Peter's chest, inaudible over the dark beat of the music throbbing out of the speakers that hung above the dancefloor. Pushing his way through the frenetic crush of bodies, all pressed close and rubbing against each other, the mingled scent of sweat and sex, drugs and adrenaline. A part of him was irritated being here, taming his instincts down to what was _acceptable_, trading one type of hunting for another, one type of prey.

Finding a seat along the back wall, he sank down onto the chair and let his knees fall open, leaned back in easy repose as he propped one elbow onto the table beside him and sipped at his drink. His eyes swept slowly across the dance floor, surveying the herd as it were, and somewhere deep in his chest his wolf rumbled and shifted restlessly on its feet. It was anxious tonight, alert, looking for a way off the heavy chain Peter was forced to keep it on.

He was loathe to admit that he still felt more unsettled than he would have hoped for. Typically by now he'd fully relaxed into the calm of the hunter, all stillness and patience, but tonight he was still tense, taut like razor wire, the _waiting _so much more tangible that it was whining in his ears, a high-pitched whistle so much like a hunter's sonic emitter that it set his teeth on edge.

But it was more than that, so much more than he was willing to confess to.

Instinct was telling him that he shouldn't be here, no matter how much he needed to be. That he should be at home, in his own territory, healing up while correcting the utter clusterffff…

Well hello.

Peter raised an eyebrow, meeting the gaze of the muscle-head out on the dancefloor that had just run his eyes over Peter's frame for the third time. He was tall, taller than Peter, with a broad chest and heavy arms all strapped with strength, tattooed half-sleeves shown off nicely in his thin tank top. Caramel colored skin, a shaved head, dark eyes that glinted in the dark; he looked the type to think that he enjoyed control, to think that he could force Peter back against a wall or down into a mattress and take.

And Peter?

Well, Peter was the type to enjoy watching him try.

At least until he got bored.

Watching the man approach, Peter raised his whiskey, let the glass click against sharpened canines as he drained the last of it, the fast shot of mistletoe driving heat into his blood and making his eyes flash for the briefest space of a heartbeat. He could see how it would go, how eventually he would tire of the game and need _more_, need to flip their tangled bodies until he was the one on top, until he could pin the man's wrists down hard, leave finger shaped bruises on the skin over his hips and teeth marks in his neck. Until the oh-so-human idiot was so lost in the twist of pleasure and pain he didn't know which was which and could only beg for more when Peter used his claws to open up long, wet furrows over his torso, leaned down to lick the coppery salt of his blood into the back of his throat.

"What's a man like you all alone for?" a voice in his ear.

Peter had been so caught in his fantasy that he almost jumped, almost missed the man pulling up a vacant chair entirely. He barely contained a roll of his eyes, an irritable growl at the cheap pick up line.

A man like him could do damn well in a place like this; he'd chosen it tonight for just that reason.

A man like the one next to him however?

Well.

He'd just lived up to all of Peter's expectations.

It was written all over him, in the way he held himself with his arms out from his sides, the way he smelled like confidence and steroids and cheap beer. The way he spoke, uncultured, with half an inner-city accent still clinging to uneducated words.

Almost everything about him was unpleasant, grating on Peter's senses, and that was exactly what he wanted tonight. Something that thought it was strong, powerful, _invincible_, something that Peter could sink his teeth into and take apart until it knew its place, knew its vulnerable humanity.

"Perhaps I prefer it that way," he purred, cutting his words with a charming smile that screamed _playing hard to get_.

The man smiled in response, his eyes lighting with something such common interest, such dim sharpening of wit that Peter practically yawned. Something was curling in his belly, stretching itself out, getting ready, and that was the only thing keeping him in his seat.

"Well, would you prefer another drink over an empty glass?" the man asked, nodding towards his empty tumbler.

Peter ran his gaze slowly over the other man, felt lust leap in him that really had nothing to do with the specimen at his side and everything to do with the hot, bubbling energy in his limbs that he couldn't shake, needed to channel into a hard fucking. At the same time another part of him recoiled, told him that this was dumpster-diving at its finest and far beneath any acceptable standards. Part of him wanted that, but the rest of him, the wolf in him, snapped its teeth with the desire to run this trash off with his tail between his legs and fear pounding in his chest. He smelled of marijuana and the sweat of others, the dull bitterness of old socks that told Peter he practically lived in a gym.

But he was big enough to take it rough, to let Peter's darker, harder side emerge without causing too much damage, everything that he'd come out to find tonight.

Everything that he wanted.

Peter felt the uptick in his own chest more than heard it, the skip that said he wasn't being entirely truthful.

He always had been the only person he couldn't lie to.

Images of pale skin flashed behind his eyes, the warm, spiced scent of clean earth and ozone a ghost in his nose, nothing like the cologne-soaked Hispanic male currently panting for his attention.

Holding back a vicious snarl, Peter shoved to his feet, startling his admirer just a bit.

That was _not _the reason he was holding back, not because of _him_, not because of the stupid boy back in Beacon Hills so determined to fix him, so determined to prove himself a provider.

And damn it, that wasn't what the kid was actually _doing_ either...

Reaching down, Peter fisted his hand in his chew toy's shirt, dragged him up into his space so that their chests were practically pressed together and Peter's teeth were mere inches from the man's collarbones, breathing in the hot scent of his neck just beneath his jaw.

"I'd prefer a dance," he rasped, his voice thick and rough, and he could feel the near-imperceptible tremble that zipped like electricity over the man's skin, anticipation tightening him up like a wire.

"I'm Ricardo," he grinned, teeth unnaturally white under the lights that flashed over the dance floor, and Peter could see that he was waiting for a response but he wasn't going to get one. He didn't need Peter's name for what they were going to be to each other, no more than Peter had needed his.

Circling his fingers around the man's wrist, Peter turned and dragged him out onto the dance floor where a dark, wild, base-filled song had already begun, his heartbeat leaping into the rhythm of it as he spun the man around, grabbed him by the hips and jerked him backwards, his ass flush with Peter's front.

_Let's take a blast to the moon baby,_

_I sit around wishing you well._

_How I'm craving you, Yeah!_

_Every time I'm near you,_

_I always wanna swallow you down,_

_I'll be right here if you need me._

Peter felt his eyes flare in the dark, knew they were gleaming a cold, steel blue but he didn't care. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, his fangs prickling in his mouth, and he could feel his claws breaking though his fingertips. Tightening his grip on the man's hips, he pulled him in even harder, grinding against him when he heard him gasp in reaction to the needling pain of Peter's hold as he dipped his fingers beneath obstructive clothes, tracing intricate, deadly patterns. Already his pulse was pounding, almost frantically in his veins, his control falling away, and he could feel his wolf raging in his head. He felt like he was being torn in two, excited, anxious, desperate to get away and desperate to bite, and before this he'd never cared. This felt right and wrong and perfect and terrible all at once, the rush of music and adrenaline and mistletoe all making his head swim as he allowed the man in his grip to turn, to palm Peter's hips and pull him closer, all uncoordinated thrusting and no rhythm, no sophistication.

Just a dog humping his leg.

_Let's take a trip to the stars far away,_

_Where were you when I was down?_

_Staring into the dead._

_My pain is caused by my pleasure,_

_And my soulmate lives in your body,_

_I can't get you out of my head._

_It never goes away!_

Hands came around to grip Peter's ass aggressively, the bite of blunt nails almost non-existent through the denim of his jeans, but he supposed it was the thought that counted. Sliding his hand smoothly up the man's chest, Peter curled it around the back of his neck, pulled him down as if for a kiss but knotting his fingers in the man's hair at the last second, turning his head roughly and burying his nose in the curve of his neck. He could smell the lust there, so delicious that it made his stomach churn, burning in his nose like smoke. A warning thrummed beneath his skin but his tongue swept out to taste the sweat at the hollow of the man's throat anyway, his mouth working to pull the blood up to the surface and ready it for a hard bite, but it exploded dusty and bitter in his mouth like crumbling brick and mortar, making him jerk back hard.

That wasn't right, that wasn't…

Something was wrong, his wolf rearing back and twisting away, snapping, snarling, ready for a fight, but the man in front of him just grinned in what he thought must be a predatory way. Pressing his hands hard into Peter's torso, he ran them up and over his sides, dragging over the deep lacerations beneath his rib cage. Barking out a hard sound of pain Peter pulled violently out of his grasp, half crouching as he bared his teeth against the flare of agony coursing like fire over his lower abdomen.

That… that wasn't right. That wasn't…

Looking down, Peter's eyes widened as a dark stain began to spot his shirt, red and tacky as blood somehow began to seep through his bandages. The sight of it caused a spike of panic in him, his wolf still bucking and wrenching at his restraint, demanding he set it free, let it run, let it _hunt_...

Because he wasn't where he should be, wasn't with…

"_Shit_," he gasped, pushing off his knees until he'd gotten himself upright again.

Ricardo had taken a step back and away, was watching him with some bastard of caution and concern on his face, all of it for himself as he held up his hands in a motion of surrender.

"Woah, man, are you…"

"Screw off," Peter managed around a mouthful of sharp teeth, and the man's heartbeat jumped hard before he was retreating into the crowd at a clip, practically running.

Some much so wasted.

Growling under his breath, Peter tightened his hand around his abdomen and retrieved his jacket, slipping it on before anyone could see the blood now coating his side. The heated-needles pain from that first night was back again with a vengeance, rolling like waves of electricity across the length of the long, curving lacerations and it almost had him stumbling as he crossed the parking lot, climbing onto his motorcycle. The ride was hell, the bike wobbling dangerously as he rode with one hand, the other pressed low against his belly, like he could keep the pain away by sheer force of will. By the time he let himself back into his apartment he was a pale, sweaty mess, his shirt thoroughly ruined even before he shredded it with the claws he couldn't seem to pull back, the bandages going with it to expose the inflamed, bleeding cuts left days before that still hadn't seemed to have started healing.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Peter sluiced the wounds with peroxide, hissing when the solution frothed and bubbled along the cuts, running in pink rivulets down to his hip. They continued to bleed even as he patted them dry with cotton, covering them with thick pads of clean gauze all along his side before wrapping himself up tight with tape and bandages. Tomorrow, tomorrow he would go see that damned druid of a veterinarian, get himself stitched up and put this to rest in a bloody six foot hole…

Staggering out of his bathroom, Peter felt a wave of dizziness come over him, followed closely by a sense of bone-deep exhaustion. Apparently blood loss was still a thing for werewolves when you didn't heal automatically, when you got sliced up like a Christmas ham.

Sugar then - if he remembered right - juice to rehydrate and replace what he was losing like a leaky sieve.

Pulling open his refrigerator, he sighed and took a minute to lean into the wave of cool air that came blasting out at him. Dragging his gaze back into focus he shuffled through the top shelf, searching for a carton of OJ without success. A high-pitched whine broke out of his chest, embarrassing even in the isolation of his empty apartment, and he practically collapsed back against the freezer, letting the other side's door fall shut apathetically.

There was no way he was going out for Gatorade in his condition, and unfortunately he didn't have his nephew's sweet tooth - there were no hidden stashes of chocolate in his apartment.

Peter's gaze ran tiredly along the counter as he considered just chugging a gallon of water and collapsing into his bed when landed on the box he'd thrown there that afternoon, and this time it was an angry, blood-chilling type snarl that exploded out of his chest.

This was _his _fault, little idiot, with his immature spark and his baking and his stupid mouth…

Stomping across his kitchen floor, he shredded the box with his claws and spilled pale green cookies over the countertop, inhaling the scent of toasted pistachios and sugar deep into his lungs.

God damned Stiles.

If he lived through this, he was going to kill that kid.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles ended up doing what Peter asked.

Not intentionally of course; he'd never follow an order just because the CreeperWolf had given one. To his mind that was all the more incentive to do the exact opposite. It was just that after snapping at him on the couch, getting punched abruptly in the gut with a whole lot of bad-touch vibes and then warned off, his temper had flared and being pissed had taken the place of feeling guilty.

Seemed like that was the safest option.

And anyway, if the guy wanted to suffer let him - it was no skin off Stiles' back.

Except... It would have been, wouldn't it? Off his back and a whole lot more if it weren't for Peter's interception of the as-yet-unnamed monster of the month.

And _that_ was the thought that plagued him, kept coming back to tickle at his brain when the house was quiet and still and he didn't have anything better to do than tiptoe downstairs and make use of the oven while his father slept.

Better baking than sleepwalking.

Still, he'd been annoyed enough, both with the older man and with himself, to stay away. Yes, Peter had saved his life, but from the way he'd been acting, from the things he'd said, it wasn't like it had been a conscious decision. He hadn't said to himself '_hey, let's save Stiles_.' It was just a heat of the moment thing, a reaction in the midst of battle that had had the fortunate side-effect of keeping Stiles' flesh exactly where he liked it - on his bones.

So what did he really have to feel guilty about?

It wasn't like he could _control _his Spark yet - honestly, he'd just fallen in to the thing and Deaton sure wasn't helping. He certainly hadn't fucked up on _purpose_. And anyway, Peter was a werewolf, so it wasn't like he couldn't just heal up from it and move on.

And _hello_, um, it was _Peter_?

ZombieWolf extraordinaire, murdering ex-alpha nutcase.

Well, maybe not so much anymore, but still, a self-entitled dick with too much sass-mouth and too many stupid v-necks…

God, he hated that guy.

Even more now, after he'd gone and done what he did, saved Stiles' significantly-more-than 147 pounds of still pale skin. Jackass, making him feel all this _crap_ - gratitude and guilt and confusion... Ugh! He was starting to get the werewolf's aversion to feelings.

Letting himself fall forward against his seatbelt, Stiles thunked his forehead off the jeep's steering wheel with a muted grumble before he pulled the keys from the ignition and jumped out, heading for the steps of the renovated Hale House.

It was nice that the old, burnt-out shell had finally been torn down. He'd never dared suggest it himself, but he thought erecting a new home in the place of his old one had been good for Derek. The ex-alpha was far less broody now, calmer and looser than he had been even when Stiles had first met him, that first year before things had really gone to hell. Now, as Scott's right hand he seemed to have found a good balance between leading the pack and not carrying the weight of the damned world around on his shoulders. It made things easier for all of them, the whole, messy little pack they had amassed, easier knowing that the one they still looked to as a sort-of-alpha was… content.

And besides, having a Pack House was everything awesome that Stiles could have wanted, the perfect frat house experience only so much better. It felt like _home_, always full of the people nearest and dearest to him, full of love and laughing even when they were buckling down to deal with whatever new thing the Nemeton had called into the territory.

Like they'd done over this past weekend.

It had been three days since then, three days since Peter had stormed out of their de-brief before it had even started, and Stiles had been keeping mostly to himself, attempting to ignore the strange, unsettled feeling rolling around in the pit of his stomach as he binged on Netflix and take-out, determined not to step foot into the kitchen. Now he was late to the summons, having had to scrape himself off the couch and into a long, hot shower before he was suitable to be seen (or smelled) in public. Pushing into the house, he didn't bother with the war-room but instead headed directly for the dining room, the sounds of laughter and clattering ringing from the kitchen.

Over the last few months, Derek had been a huge asset in helping Scott get his act together as Alpha, but _this,_ this had been all Stiles' idea. It took a little collaboration - he'd managed to annoy sufficient information out of the youngest Hale to know that this was a normal thing for wolf packs that they'd really just never had the time for - but now every other Wednesday morning was set aside for a potluck-style brunch set against alternating Saturdays spent running, wrestling, eating, and flopping into huge puppy-piles for terrible movie nights. It was bonding like Stiles had never really experienced before in his life, not to this scale and magnitude, and from the way the others had reacted on their very first trial run, he wasn't the only one enjoying the new arrangements.

"Hey guys!" he called as he emerged from the hallway into the dining area, "Sorry I'm late."

"Hey, where's the cinnamon rolls?" Liam demanded, sticking out his lower lip in a pout as he stood up from beneath the counter.

Stiles chuckled, came forward and threw his arm around the younger boy's shoulders to drag him in and rub his knuckles through his hair.

"Sorry kid," he grinned cheerfully. "Ran out of time this morning."

"Boo!" Scott heckled from his position at the counter, squeezing orange juice into a container of ice and crushed strawberries. The Alpha's cooking was deplorable, so he was consistently put in charge of making his mom's Sunrise Punch whenever they got together, which would be finished off with 7-Up or Champagne depending on their mood. "You know the rules Stiles!"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Stiles grumbled good-naturedly, strolling over to clap his friend on the back - whoever failed to contribute to the Wednesday brunch was in charge of snacks the following Saturday.

Continuing his rounds, Stiles greeted Kira and Lydia both with a kiss on the cheek, offering Derek a nod before pretending not to notice the way he brushed shoulders with him as they traded places around the cabinets, scenting him easily. The werewolf still wasn't overt with his contact, but he'd made huge strides in giving and accepting touch, and the closeness was enough to ease the tension in Stiles' shoulders a little bit.

He might not be a wolf but he was still pack, and being surrounded by it reassured him just the same.

Since he couldn't contribute to the cooking being done by the rest, he danced around them as they took turns at the stove instead, collecting plates and silverware to set the long, dark, wooden table, seven places, just like always. He even double counted because he usually missed a glass or two, somebody coming up a fork short in the middle of their French toast, but then he was frowning and double counting the bodies too.

Seven right?

Except only six.

"Hey where's Peter?" he asked, hoping his tone sounded more casual than the question had felt in his mouth. He'd been so focused on trying _not_ to think about the older wolf that it had actually surprised him when he'd finally noticed his absence.

"When does anyone know where Peter is?" Derek asked, lifting a huge platter of ham and sausage from where it was keeping warm in the oven and transferring it to the table, his customary contribution to the world of protein. "I haven't seen him since he left the other day."

"Yeah, he hasn't been answering his phone either," Scott added, giving his pitcher a stir and moving slowly round the table to fill the glasses. "You must have really pissed him off."

"What?!" Stiles demanded indignantly, earning a smack from Lydia as he almost knocked her off her balance and sent her family's famous potatoes O'Brien to the floor. "Ow!" he yelped, before turning his glare back on Scott. "What did _I_ do?"

The alpha just shrugged, trading Kira a kiss on the cheek for the bowl of scrambled eggs she was carrying. Pulling out a chair as the pack slowly came together at the table, Stiles reached for a scoop of the fruit salad Liam had tossed together, the spot next to him conspicuously empty. For the next few minutes things were loud and hectic as they helped themselves and dishes were passed, the clatter of cutlery and clanking pans causing a racket as plates were all shuffled around to be filled and made room for. Stiles found himself grinning and laughing along, smiling at Lydia across from him and contributing to the loud, rambunctious atmosphere, the strange tightness in his chest loosening as the pack talked and joked around the table.

Things settled down a bit eventually, everyone too busy eating to be quite so conversational. During the lull, Stiles began to feel his attention jumping back to the empty place beside him, the missing acidic drawl that so often filled the short silences at the table. For all his complaining Peter rarely missed one of their pack bonding times, even if his participation in the big fights was always uncertain. He might not join in the dog pile or the good-natured tussling but he was almost always there, almost always a part of things, even if it was just to watch.

It made Stiles nervous, made his foot tick against the floor as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

_No one_ had heard from him? In three whole _days_? He almost never contained his contempt for them that long - it seemed like he couldn't help but send the occasional derogatory text, couldn't stop himself from waltzing into the house just to watch them with judgmental eyes and scoff at their battle plans.

Stiles had only gotten half a look at Peter's injuries that night before the man had shoved him back, only gotten a glimpse when he'd apparently lost his mind and invaded the werewolf's space, practically ripping his shirt right off him. What he _had_ seen though, well... it hadn't been good.

What if he…

Shaking his head, Stiles shrugged it off, determined not to dwell on the werewolf's absence, unsure why he even cared. Instead he tuned back in to the conversation occurring between the rest of the pack, a debate that had already been hashed over several times. Lydia was in contact with Jackson, who in turn was in contact with Isaac, and she was currently in the middle of her bi-monthly attempt to convince Derek and Scott to invite them both back to Beacon Hills from Europe. She seemed sure that that was all it would take, sure that that was all that was stopping her old boyfriend from coming home. Stiles wasn't so sure about _that_, but her argument was actually pretty good. Both of them had been bitten by Derek, both were technically _his_ betas, even if he wasn't an Alpha anymore, and bringing them into the fold would expand their pack, making it even stronger.

As much as he hated Jackson and as much as Isaac annoyed him, Stiles could see the sense in calling them home. With the Nemeton up and active, their battle to hold the territory and keep its supernatural population in check seemed never-ending, and having another set of eyes and teeth on their side, two sets, would make the workload seem just a little bit lighter.

Still, he had heard the argument often enough to know better than to get involved. It was better to just let Lydia fight the fight, to wear the alpha and first beta down until she got what she wanted. He didn't mind anymore really, he was over her well and good by now. Oh, he still loved her, but it was a different love, one of a sister or best friend, one of two people who had shared terrible and wonderful things that they would never be able to forget.

And he could see how she and Jackson might still come together after all this time, might still come back to each other in the end.

After all the things he'd seen in the past few years, the existence of 'true love' and 'soul mates' wouldn't surprise him in the least.

Even if it did seem a little too hokey for Beacon Hills.


	6. Chapter 6

Standing outside of Peter's apartment, Stiles hesitated with his hand poised to knock, unable to make his knuckles connect.

After brunch with the pack, he'd sent Peter a text but hadn't gotten any response, and while that in itself wasn't so unusual, it had made nervousness twist in his belly like tentacles, cold and slippery and suction-y. Knowing that his werewolf healing wasn't as on the ball as Stiles would've expected it to be didn't help. It was unsettling, how driven he felt to go check on the man, how loudly alarm bells were pinging in his head. He tried to ignore it all, went home and attempted to submerge himself in the world of Halo III, but eventually he found himself wandering into the kitchen, reaching for a large steel pot.

It wasn't baking so it didn't really count. At least that's what he told himself. He hadn't even been sure what he was doing when he started, made no conscious decision to cook anything specific, certainly not for _Peter_. Chicken soup was easy enough to fancy up though; broth, browned chicken, some ramen noodles…

Add some snap peas, a spoonful of peanut butter, and a squeeze of sriracha and you were in business.

While he got the pot up to a rolling boil he resolutely refused to consider the implications of his actions - the chicken soup for the invalid cliché. So maybe getting his father's old, dented thermos down from a dusty cupboard _did _mean that he planned on going to see Peter, that didn't mean he was going to play doctor with the guy.

He'd almost panicked when that thought flitted through his mind, dropping the thermos onto the counter and burning his forearm when he jumped sideways and touched it to the side of the pot. Yelping in pain, he managed not to spill the entire thing over his legs, but it proved a good distraction, the pain much more central to his mind at that point than the image of Peter's strong, stubbled jaw and broad shoulders. After rubbing the burn liberally with a stick of butter from the fridge, he carefully filled his thermos with soup and got into his jeep, not thinking about where he was headed until now, until he was standing in front of Peter's door with no possible excuse to justify it other than the truth.

"Just get it over with Stilinski," he muttered, chewing on his lower lip. "Make sure he's still alive and go."

Taking a deep breath, Stiles raised his fist one more time and knocked firmly on the door, the sound echoing in his ears like an accusation, but no other sound came, no shifting from the apartment beyond, no welcoming words or banishing snarls. Frowning, he looked left and right down the hall, disconcerted even though there didn't seem to be any other tenants, any other _apartments _on the whole floor. Knocking again, he shifted anxiously as he waited, unsure of what to do now, but for some reason, instead of just propping the bottle carefully on the door mat and beating it to the elevators like he'd done before, he pulled his keys from his pocket and crouched down in front of the locks.

He hadn't done this in a while - not since he was young actually. He'd gone through a phase where spying and super-sluething and all the gadgets were a thing, and learning how to pick locks had come with the territory. His methods had evolved over the years; he now carried a handcuff key in his wallet and, coincidentally, a small metal shim on his keyring. Outside of the doorknob, Peter's security consisted of a single deadbolt and nothing more, no doubt supplemented by his own brand of insurance - namely the painful disembowelment of whoever owned the scent that dared to break into his space. That really should have deterred Stiles' efforts, but listening for the tumblers came back to him as easily as riding a bike, and before he knew it the door was swinging open to an ominous silence.

Swallowing hard, Stiles stood slowly, keeping his keys in his fist on the off chance that he was going to need a makeshift set of brass knuckles. The heat of the thermos tucked into his elbow coupled with the burn on his forearm was making him sweat, or maybe it was just the anxiety, but either way it was enough to get him over the threshold just to set the thing down on one of the expensive, granite countertops. There was an eerie quality to the silent kitchen that made the hair on Stiles' neck stand on end, and before he knew it he'd tugged off his hoodie and draped it over a bar stool, some instinct telling him he needed to be free to move hard and fast.

"Peter?" he called loudly, as much to break the silence as to warn the wolf of his presence. "It's… hey it's Stiles. You're kinda freakin' people out man, are you alive in here?"

No answer.

Still, something was humming on the periphery of his senses, just beyond what he as a human could feel. Maybe it was the spark in him, maybe he'd just spent too much time with werewolves, but something didn't feel right.

"Oh dude, are you dead?" he groaned, advancing slowly down the hallway even though his voice wavered as he poked his head into first a bathroom and then a small laundry room. "I swear to god, if you're dead I'm gonna bring you back again just to kill you! I shouldn't have to be the one to find your…"

Stiles' last words broke off in a comical play of stereotypical shock as he reached the last door and pushed it open, coming face to face with what might very well be a dead Peter Hale. He was lying spread-eagle on a huge four-poster bed, clothed only in a pair of tight, dark jeans twisted low on his hips, and there was blood splashed across the sheets, a veritable mess of old rust and bright new ruby. From where he stood frozen in the doorway Stiles could see the long, curving gashes that marked his side, blood caking the wounds and smeared all across his abdomen and up his rib cage. As his feet carried him slowly closer he could see that the skin was swollen and inflamed, that Peter's chest was rising and falling almost imperceptibly, and that proof of life should have been reassuring but his heart was still pounding in his chest, fear almost choking him.

He didn't know how long he would have been paralyzed in that doorway if Peter hadn't moved, his face contorting in a pained grimace as clawed hands suddenly fisted in the bed sheets, his teeth bared as he arced up off the mattress with a distressed sound, half scream and half snarl.

Staggering forward like he'd been shoved, Stiles darted to the side of the bed, his hands automatically flashing out to press the wolf's shoulders back down onto the bed, muscles banded tight beneath his touch and skin sweat-slicked.

"Shit, _shit_," he hissed through clenched teeth, leaning forward to use all of his weight to keep the wolf down as he began to buck up and against the restraint. "Peter! Come on man, take it easy!"

His words didn't seem to be getting through because Peter was still writhing beneath him like he was trying to escape Stiles' touch, his eyes still tightly closed, and there now was an ominous edge to the rumbles coming up out of his chest. A feeling of great stupidity came over Stiles then - he'd invaded a wolf's den, one who was volatile on a good day and who now was injured and weak. If Peter felt that Stiles was a threat he was going to come up swinging, and he was already half shifted, his ears pointed and his teeth sharp.

"Hey, hey, _easy_," Stiles implored, suddenly desperate to calm the unconscious wolf before he came fully awake. "It's me, it's Stiles. I'm pack right? I'm safe."

Something in his tone, the fear or maybe the insistence, must have gotten through then, because Peter's eyes suddenly flashed open, the normally searing cobalt color cloudy and hazed with fever. Still they found Stiles' almost instantly, their gazes locking so tightly that it was impossible for Stiles to miss the strike of fear that jumped between them like lightning. It had Stiles' breath catching in his throat, locked it inside his ribcage until the wolf looked away, shook his head vehemently as he twisted from side to side, a high-pitched whine breaking out of him so pained and pathetic that it had a half-hysterical laugh burbling up out of him before he could catch.

"You're ok, you're ok, you're ok," he babbled frantically, pushing Peter's sweaty hair back from his forehead, cringing at the heat beneath his palm even as Peter flinched away from his touch. The wolf was soaked in perspiration as were the bed clothes beneath him, his body burning up far beyond the temperature that even werewolves ran. Darting a panicked glance around the room, he saw a pile of tattered fabric and gauze dropped in a bloody pile on the floor, all that was left after Peter apparently shredded it, but there were no other clues to help him, just the raw, inflamed wounds low on the werewolf's side.

"Ok, ok," he panted, his hand now curled around the curve of Peter's neck where it met his shoulder, thumb brushing across the wolf's throat even as he continued to shake his head and twist back and forth on the mattress, sheets long ago kicked to the floor. "Ok, we need to cool you off."

There was no way he could get Peter into the bathtub without the man's help, so he pressed him down to the bed one more time before running for the freezer, grabbing anything and everything he could find that would serve as a suitable ice pack. Two seconds later he was back in the bedroom and Peter seemed to have settled, fallen a little further into unconsciousness, only turning his head the slightest bit away as Stiles approached the bed, his upper lip lifting in a sneer. Dumping his load on the edge of the mattress, Stiles grabbed the hem of Peter's jeans, sent up a quick prayer that the man didn't go commando, and dragged them off.

"Oh, thank _god_," he breathed, daring a quick look to find the man suitably covered in a pair of charcoal-colored boxer briefs.

He didn't think he could've handled a naked Peter Hale right this second.

Working quickly, he packed the werewolf into a little tomb of frozen peas and mangos, tucking bags of iced peaches and baby corn along his sides, beneath his arms and knees. He was careful to avoid the wounds which appeared in desperate need of a cleaning, so once he found the bedroom's thermostat and got the AC cranking, he went back to the bathroom where he found a half-empty bottle of peroxide and a package of cotton gauze on the sink. There was a towel on the floor ruined with coagulated blood and he grabbed that too, carrying it back into the bedroom and climbing onto the bed to tuck it carefully under the edge of Peter's body. It was an awkward position trying to lean over him even though the werewolf appeared to be fully unconscious now, so Stiles took his chances and straddled his thighs, bending over him to carefully clean his wounds.

It was worse than Stiles had thought, worse than he'd seen that night so many days ago. There were three claw marks breaking his skin, starting on the smooth planes of his abdomen below his navel and curving up and around his side to end just beneath his rib cage. They were deep too, cutting all the way through the skin and maybe even some muscle, the edges puffy with infection, and the peroxide hissed and foamed and bubbled up as Stiles poured it slowly over the lacerations, carefully cleaning away the blood and what seemed to be a thin, clear, sticky substance that clotted against Peter's skin.

It took the rest of the bottle of solution and half the gauze to get the werewolf cleaned up. His breathing seemed just a little bit easier, his chest rising and falling more smoothly than before without regular hitching, and he was lying still now, his face not so twisted. Stiles' skin wasn't sensitive enough to detect a difference in Peter's temperature when he touched his forehead, but after climbing off of the man, Stiles turned all the bags to keep the chill against him, the fruits and veggies already going a little soft as they began to leach the heat from the fevered wolf.

Staggering backward to collapse against the wall, Stiles felt a wave of exhaustion come over him as his adrenaline began to drain away, his fear banked but still very much alive. Something was terribly wrong here, and he did _not _have the no how to fix it. Fumbling out his phone, Stiles sent a 911 to Derek and Scott both, just in case he needed an Alpha at his back. Typing out Peter's address, he requested a delivery of Gatorade, Peroxide, and bandages, a grocery list that was sure to garner a quick response, before wandering back out to the kitchen. Downing a glass of water at the sink, he quickly refilled it and took it back with him, slipping into his hoodie as he went to combat the coolness beginning to collect in the air.

Setting the glass down on the bedside table, he reached across to place his palm against Peter's forehead, his shoulders tightening when he found the werewolf's skin just as flush and damp with sweat as when he'd left. He flinched under Stiles' touch, attempted to twist away and let out another pained bark, a new gush of blood dampening his side as he turned, and Stiles lurched forward to drop his weight onto the man's upper chest, pinning him down again.

"Stay still, you idiot!" he hissed, ignoring the flare of pain from his burn as he pressed his forearms down on Peter's ribs.

The wolf snarled and then there were teeth snapping way too close to Stiles' face, sending him flailing back and away. Heart thundering in his chest, he debated his next move when a knock sounded at the front door.

"Thank you!" he huffed, casting a glance skyward.

Er, ceiling-ward.

Whatever.

"I'm coming!" he hollered, bolting for the front-door, swinging himself into the hallway with a hand on the door frame. Barreling down the hall, immensely relieved to no longer be the only one dealing with this disaster, he flung the front door open to reveal a puzzled looking Derek and an anxious Scott shifting on the mat, grocery sacks rustling in their hands.

"Stiles are you ok?" Scott immediately yelped, "What…"

"Peter's messed up dude," Stiles interrupted by way of answer, grabbing hold of the bags and dragging the werewolves with him across the threshold. "Get in here and help…"

The rest of his demand was drowned as an inhuman roar exploded behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles hit the deck like one of the navy's finest, dropping to his knees entirely on instinct and throwing his arms up to cover the vulnerable back of his neck as a blood chilling roar exploded just inches behind him, echoing round the high ceilings of the apartment and beating a tattoo against his eardrums. Probably not the smartest move - getting the hell out of the way might have been a better one - but before he could act on that second, wiser instinct a clawed hand was biting into his shoulder and throwing him backwards, deeper into the apartment as a half-shifted Peter leapt around him to land in a crouch, snarling and baring long, white fangs at the two werewolves outside his door. Ever-ready for a fight, Derek charged forward to meet him, but somehow Stiles was quick enough to scramble back up onto his knees and throw out his arms in a flailing motion that had the younger Hale stagger-stepping to a halt.

"No!" he shouted, "Jesus, don't _fight_!"

That was just what they needed - more bleeding werewolves!

Still leaning forward in a battle stance, Peter shook his head and snarled, eyes blazing through the fog of heat that was sending a red flush down his neck, blood once again coursing down his side and soaking his shorts. His claws were held at the ready, every muscle in him taught as a wire as he challenged the wolves invading his territory, and it was _funny _that Stiles could suddenly see what was going on so clearly. That he knew Peter's mind even though he wasn't a wolf, knew how stupid it had been to call Derek and Scott of all people…

"Scott _stop_!" he commanded as the young man postured and flashed red eyes, and Derek looked just as surprised as Stiles that it wasn't working, that Peter wasn't backing down before the True Alpha. "Just… just back up. Nice and slow ok?"

And slow it was, painfully slow, but both their shoulders eventually dropped, lips fell over teeth and boots took shallow steps back until they were once again over the threshold, crowded into the door jamb from the hallway. Peter unfortunately didn't calm much with the distance, still snarling and snapping his fangs, straining forward like it was taking everything he had to hold himself back. Climbing slowly to his feet, careful to keep himself inside the edge of the wolf's peripheral vision, Stiles lifted trembling hands, his mouth dry and his heart hammering in his chest.

He didn't know what he was doing, didn't know how he was going to fix this, but Peter hadn't killed him yet and he'd been in the apartment for a while, so…

"Stiles _don't_," Scott hissed, his eyes glowing, and the sound of his voice set Peter off again, sent him lurching forward with a clawed hand swinging up, ready to gut the younger man, but then Stiles did what he did best and threw himself stupidly and impulsively into the path of death to save his best friend.

"_No_," he yelped, and then he was ducking under Peter's arm and catching him in the chest for a tackle, crashing into him like a battering ram only the werewolf didn't give an inch, so it was like hitting a brick wall. "Oh god, don't kill me please, just noooo…"

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, he turned his head away from the impact, unknowingly showing the wolf his throat, his hands planted flat against his chest, skin slick with sweat and muscles bunching beneath his palms. His whimper seemed to cut through the fog blinding the wolf to reason because he flinched back so fast it was almost comical, looking down at Stiles plastered against him like a barnacle and sniffing, snuffling at him like he couldn't really _see _him. It had a wave of calm coming over him, like _oh, thank god, maybe he wasn't about to be killed_, but then Peter's face was wrinkling in a grimace and he was shaking his head, letting out some kind of weird snort/sneeze that had Stiles stepping back in offense.

"Oh, like you can judge, you jerk!" he snapped haughtily, sarcasm coming to his defense again even though he suspected that the words didn't mean anything to the guy in this particular moment, and really all they were to him was a distraction from the fact that even in this primal, enraged state, Peter knew who he was.

Tolerated him.

"What the hell is going on?" Scott whined from the doorway, and when Peter's attention turned back to the door with another rumbling snarl, Stiles threw one hand out behind him to shut up the alpha and pointed another finger in the sick beta's face.

"No, we're gonna be _quiet_ now," he said on a growl of his own, equally to both of them before turning his attention to soothing Peter. "I get it ok?" he murmured. "You don't like them. You don't trust Derek and you don't trust Scott. You're sick and you're hurt and you don't want them in your den."

It was an explanation to the others but the babble seemed to be calming Peter down too, even though he'd started pacing and sending death-glares over Stiles' shoulder. He avoided the fact that Peter apparently trusted _him_, or at least more than his nephew and alpha, enough that he wasn't catapulting him out one of the high-rise windows.

"What's wrong with him?" Derek asked, his voice low and deep and somehow grating as he tracked Peter back and forth across the floor.

"He got clawed up by that thing the other night," Stiles explained, his eyes finding the bloody gashes on the wolf's side. "He's not healing. When I got here he was passed out in his bed, bleeding all over the place. I think he's running a fever."

"So what do we do now?" Scott asked, watching Peter warily. "Get Deaton?"

And holy shit was that the kiss of death, because if it weren't for Stiles leaping into the way again both werewolves may have been killed right there. He didn't know why Peter checked his leap, skidded to a stop to avoid just steamrolling him, but at the moment he didn't really care. Whatever was burning away in the wolf's veins was content to leave him alive right now and that was good enough for him.

"Ok, so yeah, we're not talking about _that _again," he scolded, heart in his throat as he waited for Peter to back down again, backing away from him with a grimace, shaking his head like Stiles was offensive to him on a base level.

Whatever dude.

"So, stitches?" he proposed, risking a glance back at Derek. "How does that…"

"That might be his only option," the younger Hale rumbled. "If he's not healing he can't just… keep bleeding all over the place."

"Ok," he breathed instead, "Ok, ok, ok. You," he demanded, turning to point a harsh finger at the werewolves in the doorway. "Do _not_ come into this apartment. I'm too young and pretty to be eviscerated saving your asses. We need the stitches without the vet so call Lydia. He likes her more than you guys, so that might work. We need to get his fever down so I'm gonna try to dump him in the tub."

"Stiles are you…"

"Stay!" he snapped, whipping around to glare at Scott who looked ready to call this plan stupid and drag him out of the apartment kicking and screaming, but Derek was already typing away at his phone with a scowl of concentration on his face. "I mean it Scott. I don't know what the hell's wrong with him but his wolf doesn't like you and I'm pretty sure that's what's running the show right now."

Turning to said wolf, sizing him up as he continued to pace back and forth across the floor, Stiles chewed at his lower lip, unsure why he'd been able to control him to the extent he had so far and unsure how to keep doing it.

"Ok dude," he said, low and easy but still firm, brooking no argument. "We're gonna take this nice and slow all right?"

Keeping his hands out in front of him in what he hoped was a calming gesture, he took a smooth, steady step towards the still angry werewolf and was surprised but immensely relieved when Peter retreated in turn. He was still watching Stiles carefully but it wasn't with the hot hatred and crafty wariness that he'd watched Derek and Scott with. It was actually pretty close to the way he always watched Stiles, like he was half impressed and half offended, with a little bit of creepy curiosity thrown in just for giggles.

He was actually expecting an eye roll at any minute.

Moving slowly, with his slender, oh-so-breakable arms between them, Stiles slowly herded Peter back down the hallway towards the bathroom. Too smart to try to force him into the small, enclosed space, he abruptly realized he was going to have to change tactics, but with Peter glaring and snuffling at him from a distance too close for real comfort, he had no idea where to go from there.

"Ok," he breathed again, his brain already off and flying. "Ok, ok, ok."

So Peter's wolf was in the driver's seat right now - he could deal. The guy was just hurt, going entirely on instinct… Stiles could play to that. Appeal to Peter's baser nature.

But what was that?

He knew homicidal alpha Peter, manipulative zombie creeper Peter, but what did Peter's _wolf_ want? It couldn't be that different right? He'd already done the revenge thing to death, literally, so what was left? Pack?

Eh, not quite right, but maybe... safety?

He was hurt so he'd sought out a safe place, didn't feel safe with Derek or Scott...

So maybe Stiles just needed to prove himself the safe option.

And unfortunately he thought he might already know how to do that.

"Aw man," he groaned, before casting a quick mutter in the direction of the front door. "If either of you ever mention this _EVER _I will kill you."

Taking a deep breath, he stepped towards the half-shifted wolf, tilting his head to bare the side of his neck. It had the hair on his arm standing up, submitting to Peter like this, showing him a vulnerable place so easily scarred, but it perked the beta's interest, his blue eyes narrowing in on the gesture.

Well, never do anything half-assed right?

Swallowing his pride, Stiles lowered his eyes and coughed up a high-pitched, keening whine. It was a human sound, stupid in his own ears, but Peter went stiff as a board and his low rumblings stopped immediately, as if he were trying to get a better listen. Stiles obliged if begrudgingly, starting up with a pouting whimper, slowly stepping closer and closer to Peter's side until he was hunched beneath the wolf's looming presence. What he did next he'd only ever seen on TV with real wolves, so all he could really do was hope to God that it would get him killed.

Reaching up on his toes, he sniffed lightly at Peter's neck, then buffeted the underside of his jaw gently with his face. The wolf eased just a bit but seemed confused, made a whining sound of his own as Stiles rubbed his face against the curve of his throat. His skin was flush and heated there, musky and rough with stubble, and Stiles jerked back sharply when he found himself with the sudden urge to bite. To sink his teeth into thick, corded muscle and lave his tongue over the man's throat, taste the sweat that had collected at the hinge of his jaw.

That... that wasn't right.

It was _Peter_, he didn't want...

Whatever. It wasn't like the guy could or would consent right now anyway.

Not that Stiles wanted...

GAH!

Oh great, and now the guy was sniffing at him again with that creeper look that normal Peter sometimes got...

"All right you, come on," Stiles demanded, starting to back slowly into the bathroom just to get some space between them. "Come on, come to Stiles."

Putting on his best come-hither pout, Stiles tried a few more of the whimpers that had seem to work so well, and sure enough Peter was cocking his head and following slowly after him, eyes suspicious but still foggy with the fever heat that had been strong enough to singe Stiles through his clothes. If the heaving of his chest with anything to go by, Peter was still cooking from the inside out, and Stiles refused to believe that he was gawking for any other reason than a clinical assessment. He might not be as cut as his nephew, but Peter still had an impressive set of muscles, muscles that he was more likely to keep hidden than the other wolves of the pack. Normally all Stiles got treated to was the glimpse of a strong, thick neck tapering into broad shoulders, put on display by obscenely low-cut v necks.

And okay, that was so not where he wanted to go right now.

"Time to cool off," he muttered, have to himself and have to Peter as he reached into the shower stall and got the water running, strong and chilly. "Come on, get in."

Peter just stared.

"Oh for God's sake, come on dude," Stiles whined. "This already sucks, don't make it worse."

Tugging on the wolf's arm, he wrangled the both of them around and tried to shove him inside but Peter was having none of it, and after three minutes of trying to move the werewolf-shaped wall, carefully avoiding his injuries but still getting hot, slick blood all over his hands, Stiles finally gave up and climbed into the shower himself, dragging Peter after him with a pathetic, affectedly miserable whimper.

"You're an ass, you know that?" he grumbled, wriggling around to maneuver the beta beneath the spray, his own clothes already soak through. "Even if you are sick."

A little more rough handling eventually got them situated, though to Stiles' dismay there was scant room between them in the narrow shower stall.

"You know I would've expected you to have a nicer bathroom," he commented, turning Peter sideways so that the water ran across his ribs, sluicing rusty red down the drain. "Something a little more... opulent. You seem like the closeted pretty boy type, counters full of hair gel... Not that you're pretty!" he yelped, pulling his hands away from the other man like he'd been shocked and looking down, another huge mistake.

Because yeah, Peter was still wearing his boxer briefs, but by now they were soaking wet and plastered to _everything_ and Holy God if that's what Peter looked like _after_ a cold shower…

"Whoa, hey!" he yipped as Peter suddenly swayed towards him. "What the hell do you..."

His adamant defense of his virtue wasn't necessary however, because the next thing he knew Peter's eyes were rolling up in his head and he passed out in a dead faint.


	8. Chapter 8

Sandwiched between the wall of the shower and the dead weight of an unconscious werewolf, the only sound Stiles could make was a garbled _mmrmph _as the air was driven from his lungs. Peter's face was smooshed into his arm pit, the sharp curve of his shoulder riding hard against Stiles' sternum, and it took all of his strength to wiggle out from beneath him and lower the man down into the bottom of the stall, propping him up in the corner and getting the water turned off so he didn't drown.

"_Crap_," he muttered, clambering out of the shower and trying to get his startled heartbeat back under control. "Crap, crap, crap!"

"Stiles?!"

"I'm ok!" he hollered, relieved that Derek and Scott had followed his directions to stay out of the apartment and hadn't just come charging in. "Peter fainted!"

He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard snickers.

Poking his head out into the hallway he sent a glare down to Scott, who had a hand clamped tightly over his mouth. Derek scowled at him and opened his mouth to scold but then his head snapped to the side, his stance relaxing minutely before Lydia's bright red hair appeared in the doorway, shouldering roughly between the pair and marching towards him.

"Stiles what's going on?" she demanded, the words sharp enough to cut if the edges hadn't been softened just enough by concern. "Are you all right?"

"I'm ok," he repeated, touching her forearm and drawing her into the bathroom alongside him. "Peter… eh, not so much."

"Oh my… _god_. Stiles, _what_…"

"I don't know," he admitted, climbing back into the shower and getting himself behind Peter, grabbing him under the arms and hefting him up as best he could. "Come on, let's get him back into the bedroom."

Since Lydia deigned not to help haul the soggy, practically naked werewolf, Stiles had to drag him up the hallway himself, Derek and Scott watching with unimpressed faces from the front door, but he still refused to trade their muscle for letting them into the apartment. He may or may not have knocked the unconscious man against a few frames as he took the corners, both of them dripping all over the hardwood, but eventually he got him back onto the bed, dragging him up onto the middle of the already ruined mattress. Laying him out like a sacrifice, he shoved Peter's arms above is head, out of the way of the wounds on his abdomen, watery-pink rivulets trickling down his side.

His boxers had been dragged down along the way and were now riding dangerously low on his hips, and what was meant to be a quick glance to pull them back up got stuck, Stiles' eyes widening at what he saw. On Peter's side, low on his abdomen where the crease of his thigh met his groin was a thick, black triskele, inked deep into the skin. It probably shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did - it was the Hale sigil, he knew that - but he'd always thought of the mark as Derek's. It was a jolt to realize that it had been Peter's before it had been his nephew's, that it had belonged to him first, but it was an even bigger shock to his system to think that it belonged to him at all. He so rarely thought of Peter in that capacity; as a member of a pack, a family that welcomed him with love and open arms, without fear or suspicion…

That triskele branded him as something different than Stiles had thought he was.

Jumping when Lydia cleared her throat, cheeks heating as he firmly avoided her gaze, he tugged the man's boxers back up where they belonged, covering the mark. His fingers were like ice and the heat coming off of Peter's skin was tempting, but there was no way he was spreading his palms over the wolf's chest the way he suddenly wanted too.

Jerking back like he'd been burned, Stiles tightened his fingers into a fist. He wasn't sure what was going on - yes, some part of him had always been attracted to Peter, the power and confidence he projected, but he'd _never_ considered acting on that before, not like these past few days…

Shaking his head to clear away strange thoughts, he reached up and touched the back of his hand to Peter's forehead.

"Damn," he chuckled, halfway to some kind of weird hysteria as he drew his trembling fingers back to his chest. "I can't even…"

Her hand flashing out, Lydia took his fingers between her own and rubbed them vigorously.

"Stiles, you're freezing," she chastised. "Change, now."

"I don't have any clothes here Lydia," he reminded her, the _duh _tacked on silently.

"Then wear some of Peter's," she snapped, placing her own palm against the werewolf's forehead, not even flinching when he suddenly twisted and rumbled beneath her touch, his lip curling up to show his teeth. "We've already got one sick pack member; we don't need another one."

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Stiles clambered off the bed and crossed the room to the rosewood chest of drawers, jerking a couple of drawers open roughly. He didn't even want to know what Peter was going to do to him when he found out Stiles was wearing his clothes. Unwilling to step into Peter's underwear, he found a pair of old Cal-Tech sweatpants and a black t-shirt, worn threadbare and soft, naturally a v-neck. Peeling out of his wet clothes, he dropped them onto the floor with a plop, not even caring enough to check that Lydia still had her back turned before pulling on his borrowed clothes. Slipping the tee over his head, he caught a whiff of pine needles and cologne and something else, the same dark spice that had clung to the curve of Peter's throat.

"He's still warm," Lydia said, startling him enough to get his head through the neck of the t-shirt and walking back to the side of the bed. "But I think you've got his fever down enough that he's not going to cook his own organs."

"He's still bleeding though," Stiles pointed out, the wounds on the werewolf's side far less angry and inflamed, but still weeping fluid.

Twisting in place, Lydia reached into her purse, pulling out a small sewing kit and a lighter. Opening the plastic case, she flicked the stone of the lighter with a harsh rasping sound, running a thin, shiny needle through the flame.

"Go get those bandages Scott brought," she instructed, picking up a miniature spool of black thread.

Nodding, Stiles cast one more look at the unconscious wolf who was starting to grimace and writhe in the middle of the wet, bloody mattress. Seriously, there was no saving that thing. Scooping up his sodden clothes, Stiles carried them back to the bathroom and dropped them into the bottom of the shower with a loud _splat_. Grabbing a towel from the cabinet, Stiles scrubbed it over his hair, making it spike up in a hundred different directions before wrapping it around his shoulders. Taking the stack of clean gauze sitting out on the sink, he checked behind the bathroom mirror and found a small bottle of iodine to add to his cache before heading to the kitchen.

"What's going on?" Scott asked from the door while Stiles dropped his armload onto the counter, slipping into his hoodie and shoving his sleeves up to his elbows. "Stiles, what happened?"

"What?" he asked before following Scott's gaze down to his forearm, his burn now an angry, red weal on pale, chill skin. "Crap," he muttered, reaching for the door of the fridge.

"Stiles…"

"No, it's from earlier," he reassured his friend, grabbing a stick of organic butter from the door.

_Organic_ butter.

What a tool.

"I'm fine," he said, rubbing the stick over the burn. "Peter passed out in the shower but his fever's down. Me and Lydia are gonna sew him up and then I guess we… go from there."

"We need to figure out what that thing was," Derek growled, looking more contemplative than anything as Stiles took the plastic bags that they had dropped near the fridge and rummaging through for clean ACE bandages. Still, he was pretty fluent in reading the man's eyebrows at this point, and he could see the concern that edged along the cut of his mouth. "He should be healing by now."

"Can you go talk to Deaton?" Stiles asked, scooping up his supplies again and juggling them for a better grip. "Try, anyway?" he corrected.

Derek didn't answer, just nodded before casting a look towards the back bedroom and disappearing silently down the hall towards the elevator. Rolling his eyes, Stiles sent Scott a smirk - more to reassure the anxious Alpha than because he was really feeling - and headed back to their impromptu surgery. By the time he got there Lydia had threaded the needle and was resituating herself on Peter's other side, closer to her target, but it seemed like the wolf was starting to come awake again, shaking his head and snarling like he'd been when Stiles first found him.

"He won't stay still!" Lydia said snippily, as if the older man were doing it on purpose, throwing out a hand to steady herself as the mattress lurched beneath her. "I can't sew him up if he's going to be twisting around like this!"

"What do you want me to do about it?" he asked indignantly, crossing to the other side of the bed and climbing aboard so he could drop his weight down onto Peter's shoulders. "It's not like I can… woah!"

Peter jolted like a bolt of electricity had gone through him beneath Stiles' hands, limbs stiff and straight as his back arched and he pressed up against his hold. Bright blue eyes flashed open and locked on his for the briefest second, but then he noticed Lydia and he was snarling and showing his teeth and pushing away from her as he scrabbled back against the sheets, not nearly as vicious now as he had been with the werewolves.

"Hey, _easy_!" Stiles urged, hands in the air now in a calming, hushing gesture while Lydia just sniffed haughtily. "It's ok. Come on Peter, it's just me and Lydia. She's gonna fix you up ok?"

Slowly he reached out, touched his fingertips to Peter's shoulders and the wolf went still again, still enough anyway. His chest was still heaving and his skin was still damp and warm despite the icy shower, and the way he was crunched back against the headboard looked painful if the way his abdominal muscles were shifting and contracting was any judge. With some pushing and pulling Stiles was able to tug him back down flat on the bed, one hand resting tentatively in his hair and the other pressing down firmly on his shoulder. Lydia flicked a curious look his way before bending over her task, hands steady even though Peter was watching her with an eerie, deadly intent and rumbling constantly from somewhere deep in his chest. She did quick work though, working over each of the three lacerations with deft, fluid movements, making Stiles' stomach turn the one time he risked a glance just to see Peter's skin tug as she pulled on the thread and drew the sides of the wound together.

After that he kept his eyes on the wall, his weight still leaning down heavily on the werewolf even though he made no move to jerk away.

He was surprised then, when he felt something brush against his forearm; a puff of warm air, the soft skin and stubble.

Flailing backwards, Stiles might've gone careening off the bed onto his butt if a clawed hand hadn't flashed out and locked tightly around his wrist, dragging his forearm toward a fanged mouth. Stiles made a strange, squawking sound as old memories flooded his brain - a chilly parking garage and a proposition, a question posed as the vulnerable pulse point of his inner wrist was exposed. Peter's eyes were bright and vacant, nothing behind them but cool, azure light, and he could hear the vague, smoky burble of Lydia's voice off to his left like it were coming through water, but then Peter was making a high-pitched, keening whine and rubbing his cheek against Stiles' inner forearm, running his nose up towards his elbow with small snuffling sounds. Stiles' eyes went wide and he flinched hard when the wolf reached the angry, red burn there, flinched again when his tongue flicked out over the mark and began to lave at the skin, licking off the butter and smoothing over the welt.

"Dude, what the hell are you…?" Stiles yelped, trying to pull away, but Peter's grip was firm and relentless. "Lydia…"

"Just let him do whatever he wants Stiles," she snapped, her voice clearer now as the fog slowly filtered out of Stiles' brain. "I'm almost done and he's staying still."

"But he's _licking _me!"

"He's a wolf," she stated simply, her hands moving quickly now as she tried to finish her stitch work. "You're his pack."

"So? That doesn't explain why he's _tasting _me. Unless he plans on killing me and eating me - he did say our cemetery's getting too full. Oh _god_. That's it isn't it? And anyway, I'm not his…"

"Done!" Lydia declared, snipping off her extra thread pointedly. Packing up her kit, she apparently decided to take pity in him and reached over the bed to uncurl Peter's claws from his wrist. The wolf glared at her heatedly with a low snarl, but Lydia just flicked him on the forehead, something Stiles wouldn't have dared to do under any circumstances.

"Knock it off," she said smartly, ignoring Peter when he snapped his teeth in her direction. Instead she smoothed some antiseptic over his side, covered it thickly with gauze, and then pasted over the whole thing with bandages, sealing it up tight while Peter's skin flickered under her hands like a colt's. "Come with me," she said, standing up and collecting her things in stilted, jerky movements. "I need to wash my hands."

"Erm, right…" Stiles mumbled, following behind while looking back over his shoulder at the wolf who was glaring at him from the bed, making no move to follow. "Lydia, what's going on?"

"I don't know," she frowned, stepping into the bathroom and waiting impatiently for him to lean forward and turn on the faucet. "Something's wrong with him, that's for sure. Peter has exceptional control; it's not like him to be like this."

"Praise for the creeperwolf?" Stiles asked, arching one eyebrow. He wouldn't have expected that from Lydia.

"Just a statement of fact," she said, flicking the water off her hands and taking the towel he offered her. "He's almost completely regressed, acting on instinct…"

"Derek went to see Dea… um, the DMV," Stiles corrected hastily, aware of prying ears in the other room. "See if there's any information about the thing that cut him up in the first place."

"Hopefully he has something useful to say for once," Lydia replied, taking his arm lightly in her hand and turning it over, drawing her fingers over the burn that Peter had spent the last few minutes molesting. "I don't like the way he was looking at you."

"Yeah," Stiles breathed, taking his arm back as goosebumps rolled down over his exposed skin. "Yeah."


	9. Chapter 9

Hot.

Too hot.

He was burning up, his whole body on fire, but he couldn't move, couldn't get away from it. It was licking at his skin, raking over him in waves, and it was all he could do to grit his teeth and hold on, twist and writhe against the sheets in agony as the fire in his belly burned its way through.

He knew that he was making small, pained noises but couldn't hear them, knew he'd made it to his bed before collapsing but couldn't see, and his mind was a hazy fog of ache and anxiety slowly building into fear, all disconnected thoughts that fell further and further away from coherency. He could feel his human side withdrawing, his wolf charging forward to take control as it protected his fragile link with sanity from the dreams of ash and flame that threatened to drown him as heat coursed over his body in vicious waves.

Fire.

Screams.

Screams, and then silence, nothing but the gentle shift and pop of coals bedding down in his mind, the quiet rustle as he twisted away from the damaging heat that destroyed all that was left of him.

For a time it was all he could do to just breathe, to keep his body going, his heart beating, and even that felt like too much. It was painful, his blood hot and sluggish in his veins, everything just burning up…

He had retreated well and good into his mind by the time a voice called out his name, muted and far away. His humanity had fled, buried itself somewhere deep along with rational thought, and it was a wolf's ears that perked, listening to the far away sounds of someone, something moving nearby. Something that had invaded its space, encroaching upon its vulnerability, and it was that threat that the wolf fought against, clawing its way up and out of paralysis to defend itself, but in regaining control the pain came flooding back, worse than ever before.

Claws gripped and clutched, its breath coming in rapid pants as it twisted and writhed, tried to escape from beneath the weight of the pain as it snarled in agony. Arcing its back, it tried to buck the hurt off its body, but then there were hands holding it down, pressing it back into its bed of coals and it snarled its fury, lunged to the fore and slashed its way through the last of the fog keeping it trapped inside its own head, its senses bursting free of the heat that held them trapped.

Fear cut through it as it met the gaze of its assailant, hot and sharp like a bolt of electricity, but it was gone as fast as it had come because the wolf knew those eyes. Warmth and whiskey, but cold with cleverness too, and all its instincts said that this Boy hovering over him was dangerous, capable of dealing great hurt, and the sudden, frantic effort escape came jerking from its muscles without warning, breaking the stare and trying desperately to shake off the hands that held it. This was wrong, the wolf's instincts on red alert, and it flinched when a gentle hand touched its forehead, brushed the fur above its brow. A voice above it babbled words that meant nothing to its ears, but the fear and panic in the human's tone had the wolf settling ever so slightly, its sense of smell finally catching up to the rest as it panted and gasped for air.

It knew that smell, familiar even though it was heavy and sharp with anxiety. It grasped for something in the back of the wolf's mind, tickled at an instinct that it knew. It felt like… family, like _pack_, and a high-pitched whine was wrenched painfully from its chest, prompting the hand at its shoulder to slip down beneath its jaw and brush over its throat. There was no threat in it, only comfort, soothing on quivering, wire-taut nerves even as the wolf fought the sensation. It almost submitted to the feeling, almost went slack beneath the human's touch but then suddenly it was gone, vanishing from above it as if it had never been and suddenly the wolf felt like it could breathe again, its chest heaving a great, pained sigh.

It seemed as though relief were to be short lived though, because the heat came lashing back at it like an electric current, so painful it couldn't breathe even when that scent came back and hovered near its back feet. Something tugged, shifting its hindquarters and it was like being freed from a trap, everything going loose and unrestrained even if it still couldn't run, and then suddenly there was something cold being packed around its body - icy, blessed relief all around it, cooling the painful fire simmering beneath its skin. So soothing, so achingly wonderful was the relief that the wolf didn't even flinch when the Boy, the one who smelled so very good, climbed over it, didn't even consider that it was on its back, exposing its vulnerable belly in what was a terribly submissive position. It should've sent it into a spasm of fight or flight, but then something damp and rough was swiping at its lower abdomen, a tongue cleaning the stinging wounds.

The action as much as the cooling sensation was calming, had it relaxing back against the ground beneath it as its panting slowed. For a time it just lay there, trying desperately to recover as its mind retracted, sinking deep into darkness and hovering there, still and quiet. So long did it linger there that it didn't notice the return of the Boy, not until a hand on its brow spooked it back into alertness, making it flinch away from what came hurtling in as a threat. Pain twisted in its gut as the wolf lurched away, but then there were strong bands across its chest forcing it down, demanding its submission and it panicked, snapping its teeth and thrashing away as best it could. A sound echoed from somewhere nearby and a hissed mutter shattered through the fog, recognition of the voice draining the fear from its muscles as it slumped backward, the Boy's presence retreating once again.

A quiet whimper broke from the wolf's throat as it clawed and dragged its way through the dense fog holding it down, searching for the presence that was so calming to it, the scent that was so sweet at the back of his throat.

_Mine_.

It could hear the Boy's voice, anxious to its sensitive ears, and the wolf forced itself up from the ground, blinking muzzily and shaking its head from side to side, clearing away the last of the smoke as it staggered to its feet. Lurching towards the archway through which the Boy had disappeared. It could hear other things, other voices, and then the scent of two others hit it full in the face, two other wolves, one almost an enemy, the other family but not quite to be trusted, and fury blasted through it so strongly the pain all but vanished. They were here, invading its territory, threatening it in its injured vulnerability, and far too close to the Boy…

Bearing its teeth, the wolf let out a vicious, animalistic roar and leapt.

The only thing that stopped it was the smooth, beautiful way that the Boy dropped to his knees before it.

It was the perfect distraction for the wolf, checking it hard enough mid-attack to slow it down, forcing it to attend to the risk to the Boy instead of the risk to itself. Reaching out a powerful forelimb, it batted him backward roughly in reprimand, behind and out of the way. Lunging round him, using its broad shoulders to block the others' view of the Boy, it crouched and bared its fangs, snarling loudly and violently in challenge. The larger, the more dangerous despite their shared blood, met its challenge, charging forward as it spread its feet, ready to do battle but before it could go for the throat the Boy was there again, shouting and throwing up his arms between them. There was panic in his scent, but more than that there was irritation, resignation, and that was the only thing that kept the wolf from killing the intruders right there.

Shaking his head and rolling its heavy shoulders, the wolf snapped and snarled, holding its ready position as its muscles quivered. The other wolf, the one that waited in the doorway was growling now, his chest puffed out and eyes flashing red, and the wolf felt the tug of an alpha's command but it wasn't an alpha it recognized, wasn't an authority that bound it. Even if it had been, there were things more important at work, ancient instincts that went deeper even that that of the hierarchy of a wolf pack.

Straightening up, the wolf raised its head, raised its hackles in defiance.

The Boy lowered his voice, a calming stroke down the wolf's spine as the others lowered their shoulders, covered their teeth and backed away, stepping out of its claimed territory. Snarling, snapping its jaws, the wolf pressed the advantage, leaning forward strongly in a ready stance, but beside it the Boy got slowly to his feet, his heartbeat racing in his chest even as he took a slow step towards its side. The wolf felt its muscles relax as the Boy came in close, rocked slowly back on its heels, but then golden eyes and an alpha's voice snarled at the vulnerable young man and old, protective instincts came crashing down on it, had its claws slashing on the attack.

The strike would've killed the smaller wolf. Alpha or not, it had gone for the throat, the vulnerable jugular so close to the surface.

The Boy saved him.

The wolf checked the movement just in time, the Boy colliding with its broad chest and pressing it backward as he whimpered a plea whose words went misunderstood. Startled by the odd behavior, the wolf looked down to find the long, smooth arc of a pale throat bared to it, a jolt of heat flitting through its whole body. It could feel its pelt rise, hair standing up on end as it bent to snuffle at the curve of his neck. The scent there was clean and sharp with just the barest hint of interest, relief and anger all mixed up together, but the bitter spice of fear had the wolf wrinkling its nose, stepping back and shaking it off with a sneeze.

That wasn't right, shouldn't be there… The Boy was safe, safe with the wolf here, standing for him in the face of the intruders…

The Boy barked at the wolf smartly, making it narrow its eyes, but then the Alpha snapped again, drawing its attention back to the doorway as its chest puffed and it widened its stance, posturing before it. The Boy too let out a growl, made sharp, stabbing motions with his hands and the wolf took a step back, began to pace. The heat was coming back to it, emanating from its belly and spreading out through its limbs, weakness when it needed strength in front of wolves who weren't safe, weren't to be trusted. Turning back to him, the Boy stepped forward with his hands out to his sides, murmuring low and slow. His voice once again served to calm the wolf and its hypersensitive nerves, soothing to irritated senses.

A few sentences passed between the Boy and the others, calmer, easier, but then a sound that meant fury and fear and bitterness came from the Alpha and things went a bit black from there as the wolf's fight response took over. It came to awareness again with the Boy pressing him back, no taste of blood in its mouth, but it was still unsettled by the spell, shaking away the heat and smoke kicked up by the anger. As the Boy pressed forward it retreated, matched him step for step as they moved deeper into safe territory, deeper into the den while watching him with careful eyes. The scents of irritation, confusion, and embarrassment sparked in the air, the wolf snuffling after them interestedly, and then the world turned on its axis as a throat was deliberately, intentionally bared.

The wolf froze in place.

Lowering his eyes and tilting his head away, the Boy whined - keening, high-pitched, _perfect_ - and the wolf ceased its rumblings instantly, cocked its ears in interest as the Boy whimpered and whined, sidling closer until he was practically curled against the wolf's chest, sniffing and nuzzling beneath its jaw. It was flirtatious, intimate, and the wolf felt its tail rise, felt a primal pride sweep through its body as the boy scent marked him, whining and rubbing against the wolf's throat as a bolt of arousal tainted the air. It almost snarled when the Boy jerked back sharply, the scent fading off even as it tried to follow it, ready to sink its teeth in to hold the Boy in place, but then he was retreating coyly, pouting and whimpering as he went.

It was enough to tempt the wolf into the small, narrow space the Boy had disappeared into, too tight, not enough room to run or battle, but _he _had gone in, his scent filling up the room, and so the wolf followed. It watched him with careful eyes, wary interest, its ears flickering when the sound of winter rain began to emanate from the corners. The Boy turned to him, mild irritation on his face as he rumbled and shifted his feet demandingly but the wolf only watched, until the Boy grabbed it by the ruff, pushed and buffeted until it gave in and allowed itself to be maneuvered into the small alcove, rain coming down icy cold and soaking through its pelt.

It had almost forgotten the heat until then, the fire in its belly and the banked coals beneath its skin, burning it up from the inside out. Its belly ached, the tender flesh deeply bruised and split apart like over-ripe fruit, its joints aching. Its limbs trembled a bit with the effort of holding itself on its feet, exhaustion coming over it in waves as a miserable whine broke from its throat unbidden. It was only the Boy's hands on it that kept it grounded, kept it upright even as he grumbled and pushed at the wolf's body, pushing it further into the spray of chill water raining down. It tried to focus, to shake the water out of its eyes and the smoke from its pelt but it was being pulled under. A loud rushing sound filled its ears as it swayed unsteadily on its feet, a sharp spike of fear slapping its nose, and then the whole world went black.

* * *

><p><strong>Wow - nobody had anything to say about Peter's tattoo? I was sure I was gonna get flak for that! Haha, enjoy the chapter guys - thanks for being so patient with my terrible grad school induced posting schedule.<strong>


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